


Working Out The Kinks

by Aelys_Althea



Series: From Slips To Steps [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ancient Runes, Bonding, Care of Magical Creatures, Eventual Consummation, F/F, F/M, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Rape Recovery, post—hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:55:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 130,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6128332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelys_Althea/pseuds/Aelys_Althea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over. Voldemort is dead. Everything should be better now, shouldn't it?<br/>Nothing is ever so easy. Fighting with demons from the past as well as fear of an uncertain future, Harry and Draco wade blindly through the complexities of slipping into casual life. Into becoming simply students, children, and discovering what to make of the lives they'd once thought would be stolen from them.<br/>Simple? Not in the slightest. For even the little things take some time, some practice, to work out the kinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Time

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This story and all of its characters belong, fundamentally, to J.K. Rowling. I've tossed them around a bit, true, but the mastermind herself ultimately holds the power in this situation. Eternal thanks to the wonder woman herself. I make no profit from this except for the pure self-satisfaction of actually writing something :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: First and foremost, hi! Welcome back! This is the SEQUEL to The Masks of Real Heroes, so if you haven’t read that one then sorry, but this probably won’t make much sense. If you have, thank you so much for taking a look at this story too! 
> 
> This might sound strange, but I feel like I need to install a personal disclaimer of sorts before this story. I was almost too hesitant to post it at all because I’m worried about sort of, I don’t know, trashing peoples expectations? That it won’t be what anyone was looking for, or that it wasn’t ‘good enough’ to warrant inclusion? I don’t know. But in short, I’d just like to say: this is pretty much as much for my own sense of closure as anything else. I really felt the need to just write it.
> 
> Secondly, this story will deal a little bit with rape recovery and PTSD. I know that everyone’s experiences are different, and I really don’t want to offend anyone, so if you’ve experienced either such situation… I don’t know, read carefully?
> 
> And thirdly, yeah, the physical side of Harry’s and Draco’s relationship is explored a little more thoroughly. If you have a problem with descriptions of sexual situations, this might not be for you.
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy!

No matter which country, how small the town, or the magical inclination of its people, travel depots were always a site of activity. The International Portkey Terminal of London was no exception. A single building, ten times as big on the inside as it appeared from the outside, it looked nothing if not a dingy Muggle post office that received an unnaturally large number of visitors who didn't come back out again. Draco suspected the Terminal had at least one Muggle diversion charm placed upon it; located as it was on the ectone between Muggle and Wizarding communities, there were certainly enough of the former passing by to warrant as much.

The six students stood outside the building, staring as yet another crowd of businessmen bustled through the double doors of the building. Their navy robes embroidered in five-pointed pinpricks of gold suggested they were astronomical apprentices from the London School of Rising Stars. Though he didn't say it aloud, Draco through the design made them look absolutely ridiculous. Like children. Even more so with the three pointed hats they wore. Did they honestly think that resembling the stars they studied was a necessary fashion statement?

As the door slammed shut, Draco felt the hand grasped in his own tighten slightly. The fingers were cold, Cold fingers, yet slightly clammy this time. Glancing towards Harry at his side, he couldn't prevent his face from tightening into distressed sadness, a mirror that of his partner's.

Until today, it hadn't seemed real. The week since Harry and Neville had officially decided to transfer to Beauxbatons had passed too fast for the reality to really sink in. Draco still couldn't believe it, couldn't comprehend that, while he was leaving the very next day to catch the Hogwarts Express to school, Harry would be in a different country attending the orientation night of an entirely different school. It felt so wrong, even when he understood the need, understood the logic.

The past week had been a series of disjointed events that, when compiled, served to drag Draco into melancholy as though he had partaken of a large dose of Glumbumble treacle. Or so Harry said. Draco had no bloody idea what he was talking about, but it seemed to apply to him. Besides, he was just about ready to agree with anything Harry said at that point, so long as it ensured he was still talking to him, still close enough to touch him.

Time had passed too quickly, however, and before Draco realised just how much, Black had disappeared to Paris to set up the house he would be living in for the duration of Harry's academic year – of course the man was going; he clung to Harry like a bad smell – Draco was helping Harry pack the overnight trunk and they were spending their last night in the same bed for who knew how long. Harry had assured him, over and over, that within a week, two at most, he would return to Britain for a visit.

Two weeks was a long time.

A hesitant cough drew Draco's attention, and everyone else's, towards Ron. The redheaded boy, shifting in the seat of his levitating chair, tugged his ear awkwardly. Had Draco been in a better mood, and had he not known the reason for Ron's temporary affliction, he may have teased him for the ridiculousness of the gently bobbing chair. He didn't, though. Not only would it have been in poor taste, but at present he couldn't seem to find anything amusing.

Glancing towards his friends, Ron tapped a fingernail to the watch on his wrist. "It's, um…" He paused, cleared his throat again, and reattempted. Not quite succeeding, too, for his voice still cracked. "You've got twenty minutes."

Draco glanced down towards Harry, who met his eyes before taking a deep breath. From his periphery, Draco saw Neville and Ginny exchange similar glances. Neville was the first to respond.

Stepping towards Ron and Hermione, the latter wringing her hands uneasily while Ron looked nearly on the verge of tears, the ex-Gryffindor wrapped them both in a tight embrace, one then other.

"You take care of yourselves, you two." His voice was muffled by Hermione's hair, yet the slight waver to it could still be heard.

"And you promise you'll actually write this time. No excuses." Hermione's voice was similarly muted, though Draco was surprised to see she actually seemed to be holding herself together better than Ron. The tears of the redhead were definitely more prominent.

Laughing, Neville gave a choking snort. "You know I'm terrible at remembering to send letters."

"You will this time. This time…you will." A sniff, and Hermione appeared to drag herself together long enough to attempt light-heartedness. "I'm ever so curious to hear about Beauxbatons' educational system. It's supposed to be quite different from Hogwarts."

Even in their sorry state, her words succeeded in bringing a smile to every pair of lips. Even Ron's as he reached up to pat Neville affectionately on the shoulder. He seemed to find that easier than the hug.

Stepping back, Neville made way for Harry to exchange his own hugs. They were different, as different as the two boys were; Harry softly enfolded each of them in a gentle embrace that somehow seemed to leave Ron less discomforted than Neville's had. Patting the side of Hermione's head, he murmured something in her ear, something that caused her to hiccup a sob but nod furiously in assertion. Whatever it was seemed to leave her somewhat heartbroken, but for the life of him Draco couldn't seem to care.

With a wave of goodbyes, several sniffles from Ron and Hermione both, Draco, Harry, Neville and Ginny headed towards the double doors of the Terminal. The overnight trunks rattled across pavement in a painful scratch of wheels that nearly drowned out the muted words of the two left behind. They had agreed beforehand that it would be best to keep the farewell party to a minimum. Those that directly saw the two boys off, anyway. Blaise, the one who would once have been the most likely to kick up a fuss about being left outside, was only returning from Italy that afternoon so the suggestion was passed with little disagreement.

Inside, the building was markedly grander than the exterior. A wide entrance hall of polished white linoleum gleamed almost too brightly beneath the magical light-sources overhead. Directly across from the doors at long, wide desk sat a trio of receptionists conversing with travellers as they traipsed towards them from the staggered queues to present their travel passes. To either side of the desk were two arched hallways leading into distant corridors, a lazing official standing to the side of each. From what Draco could see, each was dotted with a number of doors spaces barely two feet from one another with finicky precision. Another expansion charm in the works, it would seem.

Switching the simple manual labour of pulling the trunks to a Follow-Me Charm, Draco tightened his grip on Harry's once more. They trailed up to the end of the queue and settled to await their turn.

The receptionist that barely glanced at Harry and Neville's passes was a wide woman with ruddy lipstick and too much mascara behind her ebony glasses. Her nametag read 'Emmy', a name that appeared far too friendly and juvenile for her stately frame. Peering momentarily at the four students, she hefted a stamp that looked like a gavel and smacked impressions in red ink with more force than was entirely necessary. Neville, standing closest to the desk, looked like he suffered a heart attack so fierce was his flinch.

"Room 302. To the left, take two flights of stairs. Second door on your right." She was already beckoning the next traveller in line before they'd taken a set towards the arch.

"How unprofessional. I'm sure they're at least supposed to pretend to smile," Ginny muttered, shooting a glare towards the woman. Draco was surprised at the aggression of her words; or at least he would have been, had he not personally witnessed the gradual tightening of her nerves over the past few hours. For all Ginny's pretences that Neville moving countries didn't bother her, that she would be "spending most of my time living with him anyway," the set of her jaw spoke otherwise.

Climbing two flights of stairs made Draco incredibly grateful he had turned seventeen and could use magic outside of school without reprimand. He couldn't imagine how a Muggle would possibly go about dragging such unwieldy trunks around without levitation charms. Harry had spoken to him of moving stairs of sorts that the Muggles used which ran on electricity. He termed them 'escalators', which was reasonably enough, Draco supposed, given their function. Personally, Draco was welcoming of the climb. It would take longer than some mechanical 'escalators', which meant more time before Harry left. He resolutely ignored the fact that the minutes would count down just as fast walking slowly as they would moving quickly.

Room 302 was the size of a modest dining hall, bare except for a row of chairs along one wall and a desk behind which two attendants chatted in muted boredom. The room was already occupied by at least a dozen other witches and wizards, some obviously making a similar journey to Harry and Neville while others likely were only present to see them off. Government portkeys were both cheaper and much easier to get a booking on but unfortunately carried the often unwelcome sharing with strangers. Draco sorely regretted the loss of what minimal privacy they could have attained otherwise.

Glancing at his own watch, Draco felt his throat close over. Five minutes. Only five minutes more, and Harry would be…

"Hey, don't look like that."

Dropping his eyes towards the bespectacled boy in front of him, Draco's only succeeded in becoming more choked. The sadness on Harry's face was shadowed, as though masked. It was odd; recently, he'd become better at maintaining a hold on the display of his emotions. Not to the degree he once had – and thank Merlin for that – but a definite restraint had been placed upon the overwhelming clash of emotions he used to express at every second word.

_He's being strong. He's hiding his sadness; even though I can still see some of it, the rest..._

The thought did little to ease the chokehold clasping his throat, but Draco struggled to swallow around it anyway. If Harry could pull himself together in this situation, then so could he. At least until Harry left. Then he'd find a nice, quiet bathroom and lock himself in a stall until he felt he could face the world without crying or killing someone. He wasn't sure which would be worse, personally.

Glancing briefly around them, ensuring potential eavesdroppers were suitably distant – the closest were Neville and Ginny who seemed to have withdrawn into an inaudible conversation that could only be communicated by standing less than an inch from one another – Draco stepped forwards and dropped his forehead onto Harry's. The simple act did little to ease his heartache, but that little enabled him to speak.

"I'm going to miss you."

It was inadequate, he knew. But then, any words would be inadequate. How could one describe the feeling of losing half of one's limbs? No, it was worse than that. At least loss of limbs could be magically remedied. This loss, though, no matter how temporary, Draco would have to live with.

Harry stared up at him through the half-drawn curtain of his fringe. A small smile wavered onto his lips, but his eyes were only sad. "I know. And I am so, so sorry –"

"I didn't mean it like that." Draco sighed, closing his eyes. His arms reached up to wrap around Harry, pulling him tightly towards him. "I know why you must go. I just wish you didn't have to."

Sinking into him, Harry wrapped his own arms tightly across Draco's back. By the slight strain of fabric across his shoulders, Draco knew his fingers locked into the material of his shirt, twisting in a death grip. He murmured something into Draco's shoulder.

"What?"

Harry shook his head in Draco's shoulder. When he repeated himself, his words were still a whisper. "What am I going to do without you?"

Draco's throat seized even more tightly than before. He couldn't have spoken even had he wanted to. Harry had never voiced his own fears for the distance, the time apart, that they would have to endure. It was usually he who offered soothing consolation to Draco, that it 'wasn't truly so long' and that he would 'visit at every possible opportunity'. Draco had suspected Harry felt at least a modicum of the same heartbreak he did at the prospect of his partner leaving; the intensity with which he clung to Draco in sleep bespoke as much. He had simply never stated so, not in as many words and not with such rawness. Dropping his head onto Harry's shoulder, Draco could only hold him tighter. What could he possibly say, when any replies Harry had given him to similar questions had seemed so inadequate?

"I know it's only for a year. And I know I can come back whenever I want if I desperately need to. I'll Apparation-hop across the English channel if I have to." A thrum of humourless laugh buzzed into Draco's shoulder. The suggestion had been jokingly voiced on a number of occasions before. It didn't seem so funny this time. "It's just that…"

"I know," Draco muttered, turning his head to kiss Harry's temple. And he did know. He knew only too well. They didn't need words to describe exactly what both of them felt so profoundly.

In far less than five minutes, it seemed, the two attendants rose from their seats and stretched. The taller of the two, a middle-aged bug of a man, strode to the centre of the room while his short, mousy-haired companion called attendance.

"Alright, seven's the number I've got booked." He glanced around the room as though taking a headcount, which was pointless, really, given that Draco suspected over half of those in the room were only present to say farewell. "I would ask all travellers to Paris to please step forwards and place your right hands upon the portkey. Right hands on the portkey, ladies and gentlemen.'

Draco didn't want to let go. It took an inhuman amount of effort to unlock his arms from around Harry. Harry seemed to be having the same struggle with detaching his fingers from Draco's shirt. Finally apart, they pressed there lips together in hasty kisses, once, twice. It was too short, too brief and far too hurried.

Ginny and Neville appeared to be trapped in the same conundrum, but as Harry, dragging his trunk with eyes still turned towards Draco, passed the pair to the centre of the room, Neville finally disentangled himself enough to follow. Draco thought he might have been crying, but he didn't spare him a glance to check.

Dropping to a crouch in the circle with the other five travellers, Harry and Neville reached out to press a finger to the… wooden spoon? It _looked_ like a wooden spoon. The attendants relieved them of their boarding passes long enough to glance at the details before handing them back.

And then shorter man was speaking again. "Thank you for your cooperation, ladies and gentlemen. If all non-travellers could please step back… thank you. The portkey will be departing in ten… nine… eight…"

The countdown morphed into a distant echo. Draco could feel his eyes blurring, heat rising in his cheeks. He had eyes only for Harry, for the vibrant green gaze that glanced back at him over a hunched shoulder. He was biting his lip, blinking rapidly to dispel the rising tears.

Still trying to be strong. _Why do we both try so hard? Why hide it when we both know how much -?_

The thought was cut off as, with a swirl of colour and the resounding call of 'one!' the portkey activated. It all happened so fast, so instantly, and then it was over. The absence of the seven people from the room left it feeling oddly hollow. The last thing Draco saw of the departed was the opening of Harry's mouth, as though to say something…

Draco didn't remember leaving the room. Didn't know how he even found the bathroom. He only just made it to a stall, fumbling with the lock on the door, before grief overwhelmed him. Not tears; no, he didn't cry. But he did slump to the likely filthy floor and draw long, shaking breaths that crackled in his throat. Breathing felt impossible, each inhalation thin and wavering. But he didn't cry. He _didn't_.

Curled as though physically wounded on the floor, head in his hands and staring blankly, Draco struggled to stifle a moan of loss. His gaze was distorted, blurred – he didn't really know why, didn't care – but it hardly mattered. He must have looked a right sight, as far removed from Malfoy decorum as possible, but in the privacy provided by the solid wooden door at his back he couldn't care less.

* * *

Platform nine and three-quarters was as much a hubbub of activity as it was every year. That the Wizarding world was barely months out of a war made no difference to the matter. Reuniting returners and wide-eyed first years pottered alongside doddering families as they piled their trunks and caged pets onto the train. The peeping of the whistle, signalling students to board, was nearly ear-splitting.

Draco turned towards his mother, meeting her subdued smile with a poor attempt of his own. She was still too thin, still pale, and looked as though the wind would knock her over if it blew too forcibly. Unsought, the memory of the previous year bubbled to the surface of Draco's thoughts, the image of his father's and mother's tight faces as they wished him farewell and with formal embraces. How much had changed in a year. How much had been lost.

Narcissa was barely two weeks out of intensive care, yet she had insisted upon accompanying Draco to the platform. He objected only half-heartedly; their relationship had grown in a remarkable direction over the break between sixth and seventh year, and rather than the mild embarrassment and exasperation that most students his age felt at their parental accompaniment, Draco only felt gratitude. Especially this day.

Since Harry had left, Draco had been by Narcissa's side at almost every waking moment. His mother was a comfort; she'd always been a comfort, if truth be told. He could act as childish, as impertinent, as desperate for consolation as he wished and she would respond with only soothing maternal care. Despite her continued recovery – which had been progressing remarkably, if the doctors were to be believed – Narcissa still found the strength to support him.

She seemed to know exactly what he needed and, more importantly, why he needed it. Or perhaps it was simply Narcissa's own affection for Harry and the sadness of his departure that enabled her to console him so understandingly. Harry had accompanied Draco to almost every visit he had undertaken to the hospital over the holiday period. Narcissa had been welcoming of the additional visitor, and had even reprimanded Draco for his absence on the one visit Harry had suggested he remain at home. To give them some 'family time', he had said. Draco had thought it was a ridiculous notion, a sentiment agreed upon by his mother.

Narcissa had glared coldly at him when he had informed her of Harry's reasoning. "You tell him, my son, that he is well and truly a part of our family by now. Where did he develop such a notion that he would be even vaguely unwelcome?" She had raised an eyebrow pointedly at Draco, to which he had frantically assured her that he was hardly responsible. Secretly, the mild reprimand warmed him. If nothing else, the edge that had regrown on her tone was the surest sign of recovery he had witnessed since her awakening.

Still, the solo visit had been beneficial in one regard: Draco had finally confessed the nature of his and Harry's relationship. He had been nervous at first as to how his mother would respond. The idea of a homosexual relationship was hardly uncommon, even in noble and prestigious families. It had always been acceptable, dating back to Roman times. To belittle such partnerships that had been considered valid for centuries was ludicrous.

So no, that was not his concern. What he had feared for was her response when he revealed the depths of his feelings. How he truly loved Harry and wished whole-heartedly that they could remain together for the rest of their lives. Such a union, such a confession, posed a significant problem; by maintaining faithfulness, the prospect of blood children was an impossibility. The Malfoy line would effectively end. The thought made Draco cringe when he considered his mother's response.

Yet once again she had surprised him. Much like his friends, she had simply smiled, nodding in curt satisfaction. "So you have finally realised your true feelings? I must say, I was surprised that it took you so long."

Draco had stared at her blankly, his only defence against open-mouthed astonishment. "You're not… upset? Or angry -?"

"For what possible reason would I possibly be upset?" She frowned fiercely, as though he had accused her of a heinous crime. "I am most fond of Harry. Why would I object?"

"I just thought… what with heirs for the family…"

Narcissa sighed her exasperation. "That is your concern?"

"Well, the Malfoy line has remained unbroken for centuries –"

"Is that what your father told you?"

Draco stuttered to a halt at her interruption. Yes, they were his father's very words. The memory of being told as much, time and time again, left a strong enough pain in his chest to enforce their genuineness. He could only nod weakly in reply.

Sighing once more, Narcissa stroked a hand across her forehead. Not rubbing wearily, but close enough to it that Draco understood the motion. "Your father always was grounded in formality, duties and familial connections. Perhaps, if he had been alive and you had told him of your relationship… No, I cannot believe even then he would object." Turning towards him, Narcissa adopted a startlingly frank expression. "The Malfoy line is about as pure as any other 'pureblood' line, the Blacks included. That is to say, rather diluted."

This time, Draco couldn't prevent his mouth from falling open. "What?"

"Can you honestly imagine you are the first couple to be unable to conceive children? Due to the absence of a woman in the equation, infertility or even an unexpected death? Honestly, Draco, the Malfoy lineage is riddled with as many adoptions and false heirs as any other family. It is simply better hidden."

"But… why?"

Shrugging, Narcissa idly folded the blankets in her lap. "Propriety? A need to maintain a sense of superiority? Who knows? The fact of the matter is that a loving relationship should hardly be discarded on the a basis of producing an heir." She paused, regarding him thoughtfully. "You seem confused."

Draco shook his head slowly. "I just thought… well, father always emphasised the importance of blood purity. It's basically engraved into the very nature of a Slytherin."

"And do you truly believe in it?"

Pausing to think carefully, Draco shrugged. "I used to. Now, since I've started to think differently, to really think about it, I'm not so sure."

Smiling as though congratulating her son for his understanding, Narcissa nodded. "And therein lies the truth. You told me, last year, that you had come to believe family and friendship to be of greater importance than social status and self-elevation. Do you recall?"

Draco nodded, his mind wandering back to the previous Christmas. He could still remember the conversation so well; it had been in their Parisian Manor, their discussion just after they'd found Harry. It was not one he was likely to forget.

"I was so proud of you for coming to terms with your revelation yourself." Narcissa smiled indulgently, enough to make Draco shift awkwardly in his seat. "I had worried when your father insisted on teaching you of the appropriate attitude a Malfoy should hold. I don't believe your father ever truly believed it either, however much he tried to live by the rules such teachings presented."

Sighing regretfully, Narcissa turned back to folding her blankets. "I do not believe that the very nature of a pureblood – or a Slytherin, for that matter – is selfish. Egocentric, perhaps, but not cruel. And while arranged marriages are not uncommon, there is a sea of those that are founded on love." Lifting her chin once more, Narcissa's gaze fixed upon Draco intensely. "Don't ever forget that, Draco."

He wouldn't. Not for as long as he lived.

It was possibly that single conversation as much as anything else that swelled the depths of his relationship with his mother. Somehow, when it came to Harry, Draco simply felt like she knew. Like she understood. It made the loss of his father that much more heartbreaking.

The whistle on the platform sounded once more, and Draco turned towards his mother to bid her a final farewell. She smiled thinly, hiding her sadness behind a blank façade.

"You will take care of yourself."

Nodding, Draco struggled to swallow. "Of course, Mother. And you." Beholding her wasted frame once more, he felt a pang of worry. "Write me as often as you can. Of your appointments, of how you are feeling. I want you to keep me updated –"

"Honestly, Draco," Narcissa interrupted him with an exasperated sigh. "You sound just like Dr. Goadman." Yet for all her words, her small smile widened. "But I will. Ensure you do the same."

It was likely a spur of the moment decision, yet in hindsight Draco would marvel that they both decided to break from their public guises and wrap one another in a swift, tight embrace. Swift, yet nonetheless loving, and not hiding behind formality as they usually would. Narcissa pulled away after barely a moment and patted him on his cheek. She said no more words. None were necessary.

Weaving his way through students and families, Draco headed towards the train. He hadn't seen any of his friends yet. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to face Hermione or Ron; he was not keen to explain his rather unexpected disappearance the day before at the Portkey Terminal. Rather, he kept an eye out for them just so he would be the first to see them, instead of they him. Just so he could be prepared.

It was only natural, then, that his general scan of the platform brought him eye to eye with Blaise.

His friend of a height with Draco, so, both being of the tallest on the platform, they saw each other easily across the sea of bodies. Draco was frozen for a moment, nearly at the doorway to one of the carriages but barely heeding the churning figures pushing past his to board. He could only stare at Blaise.

His friend looked tired. Tired and pale, a distinction apparent on his darker features. He looked about as healthy as he had after taking his O. in fifth year, suffering under the strain of his mother breathing ominously down the back of his neck. Only, this was a deeper weariness rather than the acute nervousness resulting from a taxing examination period. A depth that bespoke long residency, and his struggle to adapt to potential permanency.

Yet even so, when he spotted Draco, Blaise offered him a small smile. It was sincere, or appeared to be. Weak, and a little strained, but warm nonetheless. Draco could only smile hesitantly back in response as his friend approached.

"Hello, Draco."

Swallowing, Draco scrambled for words. How was it suddenly so hard to speak? "Blaise. How was your break?"

With a shrug, Blaise glanced over his shoulder. Following the line of his stare, Draco could just make out the sight of his mother's butler levitating a trunk onto the luggage carriages. Blaise seemed to ease when he noticed the distance between them. "Yeah, alright. The relatives were very enthusiastic, of course. I'm glad to get away from them, to be honest." He offered another dry smile, rolling his eyes in an attempt at light-heartedness.

 _Except it's not light-hearted_ , a quiet voice muttered in Draco's head. He was sure he wasn't the only one to notice the hippogriff in the room and just because neither of them spoke of it immediately didn't mean it wasn't there. Pansy…

Blinking away the thought, the memory, Draco forced a like smile onto his own face. "What are family for, really?"

"Mooching off and Christmas present?"

Draco snorted a laugh. It was only faintly mirthful – the joke was hardly good enough to warrant amusement – but the motion felt good nonetheless. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed. "Sounds about right."

Blaise grinned at him widely, though Draco was unsurprised to see that it didn't quite make the expansiveness of his normal smile. Slowly, even that faded and an uncharacteristic seriousness overcame him. "You right, Draco?"

Frowning, Draco tilted his head questioningly. Shouldn't he be the one asking that? "What do you mean?"

"Only… what with Harry leaving…"

He didn't want to think about it. For almost half a moment he hadn't been and now it all came rushing forth again. He struggled to quash down the upwelling flood of painful emotions. He forced himself to thrust it aside, to not think about it. It wasn't like there was anything he can do to change the circumstances. He'd have to learn to live with it eventually. At least for a year.

Dusting off his rising melancholy, Draco replaced his smile. "I'm okay, Blaise. Honestly. I'm fine." And at his friend's sceptical frown he sighed dramatically. "I'm _fine_." Turning away from Blaise, he started towards the train. The final whistle was rung through the air and most of the students had already crammed through the doors. "Are you coming?"

Shaking his head knowingly, Blaise followed him as they sunk into the buzzing chatter of the carriage.

* * *

The trip to Hogwarts was less unbearable than Draco had anticipated. Certainly the confrontation with the Gryffindors barely held a teardrop to the expected rain of questions. Rather, Hermione and Ron had not spoken a word of the fact, though a shared, pointed glance spoke volumes. Ginny had been silent too from the moment she entered the cabin, dragging the Ravenclaw girl Luna Lovegood behind her. Draco didn't mind as much as he'd expected; the airheaded girl was a friend of Harry's anyway.

All in all, it was a rather uneventful journey. Blaise had been welcomed with sincere joy, and seemed to sink with relative ease back into their company. Only his pallor and the frequent, distracted glances out of the carriage window suggested he was hardly 'perfectly fine'. Draco couldn't help but compare the difference in situation to that he'd experienced last year. No exclusive Slytherins, no self-designated compartment. Rather, the Slytherins were outnumbered, and most surprisingly it didn't seem to matter. No one batted an eyelid at their mixing of houses.

It was surreal. Draco had always kept to his own house exclusively. At the present, however, he couldn't think of anything he'd rather less. Besides the fact that several key players were missing from the equation – Goyle had been a victim of the war and, well… Pansy… – he didn't think that he could face Crabbe after his confrontation with his father months before. It was a good thing that he'd transferred schools. As for Nott, Bulstrode and Greengrass; well, they'd always been somewhat removed from the central pillar of his year's Slytherin cohort. It had just never seemed so apparent until now.

When Hogwarts finally faded into view, outlined darkly against the evening sky, every tongue stilled and all eyes turned towards the window. It was... exactly the same as it had always been. Even from a distance, it was apparent that the castle was in perfect shape, not a stone out of place. Truly, it was a marvel what the reparations officers of the Ministry had been able to accomplish over the few months break. Less, really, as Draco knew for a fact that the N.E.W.T students of the previous year had taken time throughout the summer to complete the studies that had been so rudely interrupted throughout August.

The interior of the castle was as untarnished as before. It was surreal, to walk through the double doors as though the Battle of Hogwarts – a battle so many of them had been a part of – hadn't happened. An unnatural hush settled over the entire student body that only quietened further into absolute silence upon entering the Great Hall.

It shouldn't have. There was nothing noteworthy to comment on; the four house tables were placed as they should be, the Head table currently seated its array of professors in various stages of seating – Snape was there, a scowl upon his face, Flitwick, Slughorn, the half-giant Hagrid, McGonagall standing to the side of the Head's seat and gazing across the influx of students. It was all so normal. Even the magical sky overhead depicted only a clear evening and merrily bobbing candles that flickered in the phantom dusky breeze.

No prone forms lined the floor. No pained sobs rebounded off walls as the injured were tended by weary hands. There was no thrum of terror in the air, the pervasive stench of fear that had hung cloyingly in an unshakable blanket. Nothing to recall the incident, except…

As Draco and Blaise parted from the Gryffindors, Draco saw it. His eyes were drawn to the it, the memory of Voldemort's death dragging his gaze to the point on the floor where the creature had collapsed, shot dead by a Muggle bullet. And there, like an ink stain on carpet, was a mottled venation of thin black branches extending across the floor. As though someone had poured black wine onto the marble which had subsequently seeped into the very foundations of the castle.

A permanent stain, Draco was sure. He couldn't imagine the reparation officers would have left it there out of a sense of victory, of sentiment.

As every student dropped into their seats, as the last of the teachers folded into their own, the newly appointed Headmistress slipped up to the podium at the front of the professor's raised dais. Draco frowned for a moment; McGonagall was going to give her speech, before the first years were even appointed houses?

He didn't have time to dwell on the abnormality, however, as her clipped tone rung out across the hall.

"I welcome you, returning students, to another year of Hogwarts. It brings me great joy to see so many of you return, circumstances being as they are." She paused for a moment, and Draco immediately understood; this was going to be _that_ speech.

"First and foremost, I believe it is only appropriate that the necessary consideration be afforded for the events which occurred in this past school year. The Ministry has cautioned me from speaking of such, but I believe, as witnesses to a war, each and every one of you has a right to hear these words."

Pausing once more, McGonagall seemed to meet the eyes of every student at once. For the first time, Draco really recognised her proficiency as a teacher. She may not be as internationally respected as Dumbledore, but her steadiness, her compassion for her students, was apparent in every word. Not a quaver trembled her voice.

"We, as a school, bore witness to the expulsion of a truly heinous criminal. A criminal who, before being passed from this world, inflicted a wound upon us all, upon this very school, which cannot be so easily erased with consoling word and patched plaster.

"As witnesses, we all, as one, have grown. A trial that, while painful and punctured by loss, will only make us stronger. For there has been loss. Of loved ones, of security, of fond memories. There is not a one in this hall who has not been touched by the cruel hand of the being who was Voldemort."

The Hall seemed to suck in a synchronous gasp at the mention of his name. No one spoke, but the weight of that name loosed a buzz of chattering thoughts that was nearly audible. McGonagall waited, as though enduring the whispered thoughts, before continuing with firmness in her tone.

"And yet, even injured as we are, even having suffered the losses that we have, we will survive. We will endure. And we will grow. For we had surpassed this trial and shall step through to the other side with the knowledge that we have triumphed. That, despite the rages of a madman, the Light has prevailed and will always prevail.

"I ask not that you forget those who have fallen. It is for this very reason that I speak to you all now. No one can understand the depths of another's grief, for we have all loved and lost, and the pain – while felt by all – is endured in different ways. But like this war, like the triumph over the being who stole so much from so many, we will, each and every one of us, prevail.

"Of greatest importance, however, I ask that you all remember the struggles of those around you. That, while you have lost, have felt pain, so have your friends, your peers, your rivals. And that we shall only survive this pain with unity, with mutual support. We are united in our losses, and united we shall endure."

Silence rung in the hall after McGonagall's final words resounded. To some, it may have seemed an attempt at boosting morale. To others, an unnecessary reminder of the heartbreak that had been felt by so many beneath that very roof. To Draco, though, his esteem for the new Headmistress sparked, grew, and flared.

For the witch had been ruthless. Almost brutally honest. She'd dragged to the surface memories that so many were struggling to bury. But in doing so, she had reminded them all that they were not alone. That, though they had been hurt, some seemingly beyond recovery, there were others who had endured if not the same then similar. It was an oddly comforting realisation.

Draco barely registered when the first years filed into the room. He was lost in his own thoughts so deeply that even when McGonagall gave the formulaic welcome speech to the entire hall of students, new and old, he didn't hear a word of it. When the table before him groaned under the sudden weight of steaming dishes, wafting a surplus of intoxicating scents into the air, his arms moved mechanically and he didn't recall eating though his stomach became full.

Casting a half-seeing glance around him, Draco observed his fellow students slowly winding back into motion, breaking from the frozen lull McGonagall's words had induced. At his side, he was surprised to see Daphne Greengrass filling the seat Pansy had once assumed. It was disjointing to see the pretty blonde seated there instead of his old friend, and even more so when, as though feeling his gaze upon her, Daphne glanced towards him. The small small she gave him was oddly solemn for the otherwise superficial girl. She seemed as shaken as the rest of them. The oddity was enough to induce him to focus back upon his own plate.

At his other side, Draco vaguely realised that Blaise moved in a similar monotony. When the call to return to dormitories sounded, he finally met his friend's eyes. There were tears there, tears of sadness and the utter grief that Draco had known he had been hiding since he'd met him on the platform. But right beside that was determination, strength blossoming. He didn't need to speak for Draco to understand his resolution.

_She's right. We'll survive this. Just like we've survived everything else. All it will take is a little effort. And time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone. If you have a moment, I'd really appreciate you leaving a word or two, just to tell me what you think or if you have any particular questions. Thanks :)


	2. First Steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am SO sorry for the lateness of my update. It was truly unintentional and I'll strive not to leave it for so long again. I've no excuse except for 1) good ol' Personal Life and 2) it wouldn't write itself quite right. I'm still a little uneasy about how the chapter turned out but, well...
> 
> Anyway, much of the content of this chapter is appropriated from the information that has been provided by J. K. Rowling on Beauxbatons. However, I couldn't help myself and very much added my own flavour to the mix. As such, some of the features of the school vary from what is canonically assumed. I hope this doesn't offend anyone greatly.

The carriage jostled on some unseen bump in the road, causing Harry to slide into Neville once more. The other boy didn't comment, simply smiled as Harry murmured his apology and turned once more to face out of the window. Not that there was a lot to see; they had recently passed into a tunnel that was so dark the only image apparent through the window was their own reflections.

The sound of the horse's hooves was a gentle lullaby that, alongside the swaying of the carriage – only occasionally interrupted by a more forceful jolt – nearly prodded Harry into sleep. They had certainly been travelling in silence for long enough, and he was tired after barely a wink of sleep the night before.

Not that he'd really expected to sleep. There was a jangle of nerves dancing in his stomach over the prospect of starting school at Beauxbatons the next day; a not unfamiliar feeling, but unwelcome nonetheless. On top of that, he was heart sore over leaving Britain. No, not Britain so much as the people, or more specifically one person in particular.

Harry had barely been spared a moment from landing with the portkey at the Parisian International Terminal before the tears came. Came, and wouldn't stop. Not that they were particularly ferocious tears, simply a steady stream of grief that tumbled down his cheeks, but nonetheless he couldn't stop them. The expression on Draco's face the moment before he'd disappeared, the crumpling and inward folding of loss, swum before his eyes unwaveringly. Harry had tried to call a reassurance, speak soothing words that he didn't feel, but had been wrenched into a portal of instant transportation before a word had passed his lips. He regretted his inability to speak one final time before leaving sorely.

Neville had been similarly mournful. Though he struggled to present a resolute face, his hands were forced to brush almost constantly across his cheeks to dispel the trickle of tears. Neither had quite managed to clean themselves up by the time the met Sirius in the Reception Hall.

Sirius hadn't commented. An expression of horror, terror even, had crossed his face at seeing them, likely driven by the prospect of having to comfort two seventeen year old boys without the faintest idea of how to go about it. With a shared glance of unspoken agreement between Harry and Neville, they had both attempted a smile, relieving the man of his perceived duties. Sirius had nearly sagged in relief when understanding dawned. He had painted his own smile on with slow, deliberate motions and attempted joviality.

"Morning Harry, Neville. Wonderful to see you in one piece."

Both boys had murmured identical, barely discernible replies and with a suggestion of departure from Sirius had followed him into greater Wizarding Paris.

Sirius had attempted light-hearted conversation, but it had been a bit of a one-man show. Harry was rarely very keen to talk with a public audience and Neville, though maintaining an adequate string of replies, seemed lost in thought. Not that Sirius appeared to mind. He was busy discussing the newfound delights of the city. He had barely been there for three days but seemed to have hoarded enough thrilling stories to fill a weighty novel, or at least to make a good attempt.

"… didn't think it would be a problem to transport larger furniture into the house, but these Frenchmen, so set on protocol! Worried that a Muggle might see them entering the house, or chance a glance at something inside that is far too big to fit in by manual means. Did you know you need a permit to move anything larger than could fit through a door if you live in Muggle suburbia?"

As it happened, Harry didn't know, but his own scant interest seemed nothing on the incredulity of Sirius'. The man had nattered on incessantly, like a child in an amusement park. It was strange, seeing such a side to the man, a side which had only hitherto been gleaned through their written correspondence. Seeing it in person left Harry wondering just which exactly was the dominant persona of the man; the hard-faced, serious and practical wizard who had led them safely into Hogwarts not five months before or the energetic puppy who seemed to want nothing more than to lead them enthusiastically though the streets of Paris like a loyal tour guide.

They'd spent the night at Sirius' new house as planned. Neville stayed with them; he likely would in future instances too. He'd claimed his grandmother had at first declared she would accompany him, but he'd managed to talk her out of it. Thankfully, for the two had never shared a particularly amicable relationship from what Harry could tell.

It was a large house for a single person residence, situated in a quiet Muggle street largely free of the noise of traffic. Built of dark brick with a triangle-roof in flat black tiles, it was a fairly plain, typical suburban house that mirrored its neighbours by its sheer plainness.

Despite it's substantial size, however, Sirius bemoaned that it held nothing on some of the Black Manors that were apparently spotted throughout England, Scotland and Germany. Not that his disconsolate attitude had lasted long. He gave them a brief tour of the house – two bedrooms, a network of wide living and dining rooms with equally wide, square windows, and a kitchen properly outfitted for a Muggle, though Sirius claimed he would hardly be using it for such – before urging them back out onto the streets in search of lunch. Word had it that the man's nose had led him on wondrous travels through the nearby Muggle mall that left him practically salivating over the prospect of a what he declared was a 'spectacular pizza parlour'. Harry couldn't see what was so spectacular about it, but humoured his godfather nonetheless.

They'd spent the night with Sirius demonstrating to Neville the wonders of a 'television', of which the boy had only heard of in distant tales. Apparently, the residence had been purchased completely outfitted and Sirius was delighting in discovering the many wonders of the Muggle world now available to him. Harry watched his antics with faint amusement, glad that Neville seemed to have brightened somewhat at the distraction. They'd spent the evening flicking channels too fast to acknowledge what was being played for the most part, before retiring to bed. Where Harry, two caught up in his own thoughts, hadn't slept.

It was the first time in so long that he hadn't shared a bed with Draco; the matress of the double bed seemed far too wide for one person, even with Lyssy curled up beside him. It was strange, really. He hadn't had an ounce of difficulty transitioning into sharing a bed, so why was it such a big deal reversing his sleeping arrangement? He didn't understand; it was illogical. Yet even knowing as much, acknowledging the irrationality, didn't assist him in his attempts to fall into unconsciousness.

The next morning had seen the two teens and their guardian, accompanied by the shadow of a little black cat, wandering through the underground Wizarding pedestrian highway, _Le Cachee Labyrinthe_. Harry was surprised to learn from Sirius that it actually extended throughout the entire metropolitan region of Paris. They had agreed, with approval from the current headmistress of Beauxbatons, to arrive at the school on the first of September a little earlier than most to give them time acquaint themselves with their new school before the rest of the students arrived. As the nerves set alight in Harry's stomach, he wondered if he would have preferred to wait an extra day.

Magically trailing their school trunks, the highway made short work of the trip to the Beauxbaton's departure point. The sprawling collection of buildings secreted in a corner of the labyrinth looked to be nothing if not an elaborate stage of immaculate stables, lined with pale carriages the size of large cars that looked more befitting of Cinderella for general shape and gaudiness. They'd arrived early – even earlier than anticipated – and as such only a smattering or grooms and young adults that could have been students were to be seen.

Most surprisingly of the stables was that, unlike every other shop or government facility encountered in Wizarding Paris, the Beauxbatons stables were entirely underground. The reason for such quickly became apparent after, with an urging from Sirius to act as translator, Harry had spoken to a groom and informed him of their destination.

The groom, a tall man dressed in dark slacks and a grey shirt as immaculately clean as his surroundings, had only nodded curtly and directed them towards one of many waiting carriages. He disappeared only a moment before returning, leading a pair of fellow grooms and…

"Pegasus!" Neville's face lit up excitedly, glancing towards Harry. "I completely forgot that Beauxbatons used Pegasus. Did I tell you that in fourth year when they arrived the carriage of the students that came for the Triwizard Tournament was pulled by Pegasus? Did I?"

Harry only nodded numbly in reply. His wide eyes were fixed incredulously on the giant horses that danced spiritedly on the end of their tethers, tossing heads and nearly wrenching their grooms from their feet. They were magnificent beasts. Of the palest gold, darkening only faintly at the muzzle and feathered hooves, they towered over the tallest of horses Harry had personally seen in his admittedly limited experience with equines. He was sure, however, that none even strained close to the impressive height, the sheer muscle tone, of the creatures that stood before him.

Most impressively of all, though, were the enormous wings that sprouted from the shoulders of each, adorned in feathers of varying shades of gold, silver and white. Enormous, each at least twice as long as the horse's length, the flight feathers trailed slightly on the ground alongside it, sweeping across the stone floor. They looked impossibly heavy, and Harry wondered how the creatures would even be able to lift them for flight.

"A sight bigger than Buckbeak, those ones," Sirius murmured beside them. Harry had seen Buckbeak, had met him over the summer holidays and had been rather taken with the enormous, proud creature, but otherwise had to agree with Sirius' sentiment. Indeed, the hippogriff held nothing to the size of the Pegasus.

Neville hummed his agreement. "I wonder if we'll be studying them in class?" He pondered aloud. Harry didn't bother answering him; it wasn't like he was any the wiser.

A moment later the grooms were leading the dancing Pegasus towards the nearest carriage and proceeding to hitch them onto it with a series of complex straps. Harry watched, fascinated, unable to draw his eyes away, as the grooms wove amongst the creature's legs. They could just about walk beneath their bellies without ducking, so large were they. Not that their size seemed to intimidate the handlers in the slightest. As he watched, Harry saw one give a firm jab of his elbow into the ribs of the Pegasus that had attempted to take a chunk out of his shoulder. The creatures snorted in displeasure, but subsided with his attempt to nibble on the man.

"You're off to Beauxbatons, then? Just the two of you? Not waiting for anyone?"

At the words, Harry jerked his head towards the approaching newcomer he hadn't even noticed. A relatively short, slight man with a fuzz of dark beard on his chin and equally fuzzy hair was walking towards them, wiping his hands together as though ridding them of crumbs. The man barely spared them a glance, gazing behind him towards the carriage being outfitted with its steeds.

Harry paused a moment, glancing towards Neville and Sirius who in turn trained expectant stares back upon him. There suggestion was apparent enough: _all yours._

True, Harry would most likely have to take the reins in the coming conversation too. Though he had been trying to teach Neville the rudiments of French in the past weak, it was a work in progress. A crash-course that was definitely more crash than course. Sirius hadn't even bothered to seek a linguisticstutor, claiming he knew how to make himself understood just fine and would pick up the necessities quickly enough.

"Um… yes, just the two of us. Sorry, we're rather early."

His apology seemed to draw the man's attention. With a sudden smile, he shook his head. "Not at all. Been here for nearly three hours already myself. It's better to get on the road early; horses only have one trip in them a day so it means I get off early, yes?" Smiling crookedly, the man regarded Sirius and Neville for a moment, then seemed to disregard them once more as being merely a silent audience to the conversation. "Anyway, the name's Jean Charlet. You?"

"I'm Harry. And this is Neville and Sirius." Choosing to emit their surnames, Harry hesitantly took the man's proffered hand and shook it. Jean appeared to grow more enthusiastic with his words. He certainly became more amicable.

Still smiling, Jean nodded briefly to Neville and Sirius, offering a similar handshake. "Nice to meet you. I haven't seen you lot around before, but I can't believe that you're first years. You new?"

"Yes, just transferred."

"From…?"

"Hogwarts."

"Ah," Jean nodded, as though the name held some sort of explanation. "Well, I won't say anything against your past school, but just know that Beauxbatons is a bit different." And though he didn't say anything further as he'd claimed he wouldn't, his tone bespoke a sense of pride in his national school, a confidence in its superiority. Harry had struggle to withhold a frown; he was glad Neville and Sirius hadn't heard Jean's words. Both were nothing if not touchy when it came to comparing educational institutions. Harry himself, though rather less attached to Hogwarts than the both of them, still felt a twinge of discomfort that he forced himself to quell as Jean's continued. "But anyway, you ready to head off?"

Glancing around him, Harry scouted for any other fellow students. He didn't really expect to see any. "Did you want to wait for a bigger load?"

"Hmm?" Jean raised an eyebrow. "No, no, not at all. Lighter loads go faster. It's about a four hour trip, but with just the two of you it should take about three and a half. Mean's I get off at the other end even faster." Jean smiled widely, winked at Harry conspiratorially and Harry couldn't help a small smile of amusement arising in reply. The man gave the impression of a layabout with his references to shirking work, but the slightly bounce on his toes throughout the conversation spoke otherwise. Harry found he quite liked Jean – save for the derogatory insinuations to Hogwarts, that is.

One of the grooms fastening the Pegasus called out to them in muffled tones. Jean turned and called a crude, "What?" over his shoulder, eliciting a loud sigh of exasperation from his colleague.

"Said we're about all done here, Jean. Whenever you're ready."

"Splendid," Jean replied, turning back to Harry. "All set then. You ready to be off?" At Harry's nod, he held up a finger towards him. "Won't be but a moment, I've just got to get you're names signed off with Tomas; he's supposed to be around here but is most likely still chowing down his breakfast." A final brief grin, and Jean was jogging towards the stables in the direction of a building with a doorway that was far to low for a Pegasus to pass through.

"What was all that about, then?" Neville asked sidling up to him and tilting his head questioningly in the direction Jean had departed.

"No idea," Sirius replied, as though the question had been directed towards him. "Didn't make a lick of sense to me. Something about a step-ladder and his mother's apple pie was all I got."

Harry bit back a laugh with difficulty, resolutely turning away from Sirius' sceptical expression. '"He was just introducing himself. He said we can leave as soon as we get our names signed off."

Sirius stepped up to Harry's side other side. His posture seemed guarded, almost protective, from the arms crossed over his chest to the intensity of his gaze.

"Names signed? What for? We never had to do that on the Hogwarts Express." His tone was resentful, accusatory, and Harry was once again relieved Sirius hadn't been party to the earlier conversation.

"I don't know. Maybe because they're individual carriages or something?" When Harry turned his suggestion towards Neville, his friend only shrugged, as confused as he was.

Moments later, Jean had returned. He profusely guaranteed Harry that all was set and ready to go, and proceeded to drag their trunks towards the carriage, waving away both Harry and Neville's attempts to assist him. As he was loading the bulky trunks into the unfolded back compartment of the carriage, Harry turned to farewell Sirius.

His godfather engulfed him in a hug. Only briefly, though. Over the summer, there had been a point at which Sirius' tendency to position himself near to Harry and shower him with hugs and good-natured pats had stuttered to a halt. Harry suspected it had something to do with Draco, but hadn't asked. He wasn't entirely comfortable with hugging anyone except Draco anyway.

"You take care of yourself, yeah, kit?" Sirius muttered. His tone suggested he honestly expected Harry to throw himself into mischief. The use of his newly acquired pet name, a play on Lyssy's ever-present companionship, did nothing to hide the faint wistfulness in his voice. He even spared half a glance for the little cat waiting patiently at Harry's feet.

"Of course."

"I'll see you sometime before the Christmas break?"

Harry nodded into Sirius' shoulder. "On the weekends. When I'm not visiting Draco."

Sirius snorted, muttering something Harry couldn't quite catch. Draco and Sirius had become… neutral with one another over the summer, to put it kindly. This arrangement did not, however, mean they had to like one another. But Sirius only offered a pat on the shoulder as he pulled away in reply to Harry's questioning eyebrow. "Send me letters too, mind. I want to hear from you every couple of days by mail, since we don't have the mirrors to talk through anymore, or else."

"Or else what, Sirius," Neville said, smiling teasingly.

Cuffing him gently over the back of the head, Sirius pulled the other boy into a one-armed hug. "Or else I'm coming in there to drag the both of you out. No shifty cultist conventions, you hear? And make sure that you scout the place after dark at least once."

"I think you're supposed to be discouraging us from rule-breaking, Sirius," Neville laughed, smile widening.

Shaking his head, Sirius sniffed. "You're not living without some rule-breaking."

"So you say. Harry generally plays everything as is proper, right Harry?"

Sirius turned a falsely stricken gaze towards Harry, who couldn't help rolling his eyes. "No… not my godson! Harry, how could you?!"

The three dissolved into chuckles, followed by another round of goodbye hugs before Sirius nudged them both towards the carriage and Jean waiting at its side. The man nodded at Sirius over their shoulders briefly before gesturing towards the carriage with an inviting sweep of his arm.

"Whenever you're ready, boys." He flicked the side door open for them both and Neville chivvied Harry inside first. Pausing only to heft Lyssy into his arms, Harry scrambled awkwardly up the steps into the carriage. The interior was spacious, unnaturally large with blue-cushioned seats and thin white curtains over the single windows on each of the four walls. There was refinement about the lines of the structure that put Harry faintly in mind of Draco's manor in in the city above him. "You need anything, just tap at the little window at the front and let me know."

"Thank you, Monsieur Charlet," Harry smiled at the man, Neville mimicking him in a poor accent before the carriage door was shut. The wheels rolled into motion as they waved to Sirius out of the back window. Within moments the tall figure of Harry's godfather had disappeared with the thick darkness of the tunnel they trundled into.

Apparently, _Le Cachee Labyrinthe_ extended even further that Metropolitan Paris. Or at least the tunnel that they descended into did. Harry wouldn't have been surprised if it was the only tunnel extending as far; it certainly seemed isolated enough, from what he could tell. The walls were uncomfortable close, apparent even through the blackness of their surroundings. It left him faintly claustrophobic and shifting uneasily in his seat.

The travel through darkness extended for well over an hour. And in that hour, Harry and Neville did little save comment idly to one another of light-hearted topics, comments that gradually faded into silence. The shadows nearly swallowing the carriage seemed to encourage as much, and Harry found himself falling back into his thoughts once more. Not particularly a place he wanted to be.

He missed Draco. Missed him as he had expected yet not quite conceived, and it had only been a day since they had parted. Harry had never been privy to such emotions before; he'd never really been close enough to anyone to regret their absence. Even over the Christmas break the previous year he hadn't been party to such feeling. More profound emotions, or containment of such emotions, were the priority. But now, left with nothing but pondering thoughts to trek over the ageing tracks in his mind, Harry missed his tall Slytherin more than he could say. The thought elicited a chain reaction of thoughts – maybe he shouldn't have left, maybe he should have gone back to Hogwarts for his second and final year, maybe he'd been an _absolute fool_ …

But then the lurking shadow that always waited idly just on the fringes of his consciousness made itself known. Slipping even more easily into his mind in his bored state, the memory of the previous year, the explosions and crumbling of stonewalls, the shrieks of terror and pain, the BANG of a shot fired from him and the subsequent collapse of his target… Harry;s mind always drifted to as much when otherwise unstimulated. Barely conscious of his motions, he began to stroke Lyssy's back with perhaps more force than necessary. It didn't help much, couldn't suppress the chill that slithered down his spine or shake the trembles of his fingers, but it helped some. A little. Just… not quite as much as Draco could.

It was difficult to gauge time, but Neville fell into a brief doze and woke up again with the blanket of darkness still upon them. Harry tried to follow his example, but the occasional bump in the road, accompanied by the indignant grumbling from Lyssy in his lap, forbade him from finding such a reprieve from the pervasive silence. He did manage a listless half-doze, however, but was almost immediately shaken into alertness by Neville's excited prodding.

"Harry, look! Seems we're out of the tunnel."

The other boy was pressed cheek to glass against the window, straining to peer in the darkness of the direction they headed. Or the not-so-darkness, as it appeared the shadows were lifting. Harry scooted to the opposite window just in time to receive a full-blown assault of radiant light to his eyes. He shaded them with a raised hand before slowly allowing his gaze to fall through the clear glass in wonder.

They had well and truly left the city, that much was apparent. Sprawling around them like a picturesque landscape painting was a depiction of undulating hills stretching into a distant stand of mountains. The autumn sun overhead bathed the scenery in a rich, vibrant glow, reflecting off a river that looped, serpentine, into the distance. Greenery abounded and not a man-made structure was in sight, Muggle or Wizarding. It was oddly satisfying to behold. Even when Harry craned his head to see the road before them, he could make out only a slight impression in the grass to indicate that they followed a road at all. The tunnel had disappeared into thin air.

"Just where the bloody hell are we?" Neville murmured, his breath fogging the glass before his eyes. "I know the Wizarding highway is magically imbued to reduce distance, but… this?"

Harry shook his head wordlessly. His eyes flickered about them, absorbing the beauty of their surroundings. He'd never been in such a setting before, so devoid of anthropomorphic influences as to appear wondrously wild, yet pristine and perfect, everything in its rightful place. He could have gazed out of the window for hours on end had there not been a particularly jolting turn to the monotony of the carriage's trundling as they picked up speed.

And kept picking up speed. Neville, after initially smiling broadly at the prospect of moving faster, gradually lost his grin as such acceleration increased with nauseating speed. Harry wouldn't have minded so much had the bumps in the gently rocking carriage not persisted, only jolting more frequently as they ploughed forwards in something approaching breakneck speed. Faster and faster they sped; straining to peer at the road out the window Harry could make out nothing but a greenish blur. It soon became apparent that even on his uncle's bike he'd never moved so fast.

Neville looked as though he was on the verge of becoming physically sick, all amusement vanished. His hands gripped the inside of the carriage door, straining for a modicum of stability. And he promptly loosed a strangled cry when a particularly loud bump sent the carriage soaring briefly off the road. Harry found his own hands grasping with similar intensity, one on the handle of the door and the other on the arching back of the cat in his lap. He wasn't sure which was grip was tighter.

_He's going to kill us. God help us, Jean is going to kill us. We don't even know the man, he could have been anyone; what sort of an idiot am I to agree to get into a Pegasus-drawn carriage with an absolute stranger…_

The thoughts buzzed around Harry's head as he clamped his eyes closed. He didn't want to see out of the window anymore, witness the blurring speed at which they moved. Prayers to a God he hadn't known he believed in raced through his mind and he thought he heard Neville gasping similar appeals.

For whatever reason, Harry or Neville's pleas, it seemed to work. Or at least, they worked to cease the horrifying jolting, easing into a motion almost too smooth. It was disconcerting the abruptness of the cessation, foreboding. With difficulty, Harry peeled his eyes open. He was scared to look out of window, terrified at the speed he would find. Perhaps they'd crashed and he simply hadn't registered it yet.

What he saw made him gasp. And because his friend's eyes were closed, he joggled him with a frantically patting hand. "Neville... look."

Neville's echoing gasp told Harry he had heeded him, but he didn't care to glance from the window to check. He stared fixated, wide-eyed and peering through the mistiness of clouds onto the miniaturised landscape below. The mountains, shrunken to the size of hills by distance, peered back at them from below. Their crests were speckled with the whiteness of snow, contrasting the darkness of intermittent rock that steadily overwhelmed the paleness in a gradual crawl upward from the ankles of the peaks. Sprawling across the rock, along the valley floor below, a rich rug of green spread in every shade of green. The entire impression was nothing if not an incredibly detailed mosaic, each colour placed with perfect precision to produce a sprawling expanse of glorious imagery.

Flying…they were flying in a carriage pulled by Pegasus…

Harry didn't, until that moment, fully believe that the Pegasus were capable of flight. Structurally, given their sheer size and muscle mass, no matter what the length of their wings the creatures should not have been able to lift from the ground. But then…

"I love magic…"

Not for the first time Harry found himself eternally grateful to have discovered the wonders of the gift he had been given. The view itself was beautiful, breathtaking; an image taken from a helicopter's snapshot without the encumbering weight of the vehicle hanging behind it. But more than that, the connotations, that it was the horses that had drawn them into flight…

A sharp knock on the front window jolted Harry from his fixated awe. Turning behind him, he glanced into the crookedly grinning face of Jean.

"You right in there?"

Harry wasn't entirely sure how to answer that question. Slowly, hesitantly, he nodded. His face must have spoken for him, for Jean cackled a laugh that somehow managed to penetrate through the exterior of the carriage, despite its wind-whipped state.

Neville scowled at the man's beaming face. "He could have told us what was going to happen." Harry didn't reply but secretly agreed.

Whether Jean understood them or not, Harry wasn't sure, but either way he answered. "Sorry 'bout that, but it's always fun to scare the living daylights out of the first years. We all fight for their carriages at the beginning of the year." He released another joyous cackle.

Sighing, Harry slumped back in his seat. Any annoyance he might have felt at Jean for conveniently forgetting to tell them of their sudden lift-off slipped away with a weariness brought about but the rapidly dying rush of adrenaline. _Not dead… not dead…_ The words whispered through his mind like a mantra. It was enormously reassuring.

Neville, still scowling at Jean – who had since turned his back to them – settled back into his own seat. "I swear, when we get out of this bloody carriage…"

Turning his head towards his friend, Harry gave a weary smile. "Not fond of flying, Neville?"

Neville snorted. "Yeah, you could say that. I haven't had many good experiences with brooms, much to Ron's eternal disappointment. Had a rather nasty time of it in first-year flying lessons." The look of his face forbade any further questioning. Harry wisely left him to himself.

The rest of the journey was peaceful by comparison. Harry found himself quite enjoying the wispy patterns of clouds that passed by their window, trailing cool, opaque fingers over the glass. It was lulling to watch. He spoke little to Neville, and Neville hardly seemed to mind. Until, after an immeasurable amount of time, the other boy cocked his head towards Harry.

"How long is the trip?"

Turning absently towards his friend, Harry glanced to the watch Neville tapped on his wrist. "Monsieur Charlet said it should take about three and a half hours."

"Oh." Neville similarly glanced down towards his wrist. "We're not to far off, then. You think we should get changed?"

Shrugging, Harry made good Neville's suggestion. The other boy, with more sense than Harry had, slipped his wand into his hand and with a tap onto the seat at the back seat of the carriage momentarily disappeared wall into the trunk. The compartment holding their luggage was revealed, and they both retrieved their new robes – sent via owl-post from the school – before Neville replaced the seat. Harry muttered his thanks.

They looked strange, the new uniforms. Not necessarily bad but… different. Much more formal than Hogwarts'. Neville didn't seem overly fond of them, but Harry thought they actually suited the other boy rather well. The pale silk and delicate lace of the white shirts and periwinkle dress trousers fit him perfectly, the matching blue of the cravat tied loosely around his neck bringing out the blue in his eyes. Apparently only the boys wore the neckpiece, while the girls were outfitted with a beret of sorts. Neville bemoaned the black dress shoes they wore as part of the uniform, namely the slight heel, and adamantly refused to wear the pale silken gloves.

"I'll look like a bloody little doll all dressed up so poshly. What happened to comfortable, practical woollen gloves?"

"The Pyrenees is probably too warm for thick gloves. The jackets we've got are hardly thick enough for a cold winter." Harry, ignoring Neville's sentiment, slipped his own gloves on. They felt rather comfortable, actually, cool against the skin.

Neville regarded him with a raised eyebrow, running his eyes over Harry's critically for a moment before smirking.

"What?" Harry asked.

" _You_ look like a doll." And he snickered as though it were a fine joke. Harry stared at him flatly, folding his hands in his lap. No reply was necessary for such a poor attempt at humour. As it was, Neville's chuckles subsided into a subdued clearing of his throat. He proceeded to tug his gloves on without another word.

Harry was hardly paying him a second of attention by that point, however. Instead he turned his gaze back out the window. Just in time, too, for in that moment the clouds dispersed and Beauxbaton's Academy of Magic came into view.

And once more Harry was rendered speechless.

It was just as breathtaking as its surroundings, yet in an entirely different way. Harry suspected that, at a much greater distance, the buildings that composed the Academy would have been hidden from view, camouflaging seamlessly into the terrain. A collection of four, twisting spiral towers composed the bulk of the Academy, embedded as though grown from the rock face of the mountainside upon which they sat. Triangular windows dotted the side of each like tiny, inquisitive eyes. The perfectly pointed cones atop each tower's heads shared a sculptured resemblance to the mountains surrounding them. At the distance they were from the Academy, Harry could just make out a spider web-like network of cords connecting each tower. No, not cords; bridges. They were interlocked in an intricate design, sweeping above and below one another to create a semblance of overall solidity. The faint glistening of the windows on the stone looked like jewels. It gave it a regal impression, and Harry understood immediately why some referred to the school as a palace.

Drawing nearer, the sheer complexity of the structure became increasingly apparent. The very stone of the towers seemed to mirror that of the topography in shades and smatterings of vivid green and dark stone like a chameleon buried into the safety of the natural midst. Not only that, but the towers appeared to be seated into the very mountainside itself, the walls fading into the rock as though they truly had grown from it. At the foot of each tower, elevated slightly from the base of the mountain, were sets of long, perfectly carved, wide staircases with an innumerable series of steps leading to an arched door set halfway up each tower.

It was truly magical to behold, and was made even more so with the low hanging clouds shrouding the dark stonewalls. It gave the entire interconnected structure an otherworldly aura.

So engrossed was Harry in his observation that he barely realised when the carriage drew into touchdown. It was jarring, to say the least, and Harry was sure their ride nearly tipped over, but even so it was barely a shadow on the jolting that it rightly should have been. Jostling in his seat, Harry said as much to Neville upon his friend's complaint and the flicker of nausea followed by a rapid nodding of his head bespoke agreement to the matter.

He didn't get a chance to open the door himself. Jean swung himself from the front of the carriage like a monkey, tugging the door open for them and gesturing grandly through the door in a sweep of his arm. Sharing a hesitant glance with Neville, they filed from the confines of the carriage, thumping onto the grassy opening beyond. Harry turned in a slow circle, peering around himself curiously.

They appeared to be in a loading bay of sorts, an open field surrounded by tall autumnal trees. For the carriages, it would seem, given the sparse scattering of similar Cinderella vehicles lining the edge of the field. A single, high-ceiling structure – a stable, Harry hazarded – ran the length of one side of the field. A small cottage, squat and built of colourful stones, sat alongside; Harry assumed, though wasn't sure, that it was reserved for the groomsmen and stablehands. Yet it was not that which drew the eye.

There were two of those seemingly endless stairwells within sight, one more distant that the other. From the ground, they looked even more imposing, though less so that the towering buildings stretching above and below each of them. Harry had to tilt his head back to even glimpse the top of them, shielding his eyes from the sun as he squinted to scan the underside of the interconnecting bridges. It was dizzying to behold.

A heavy thump at his side drew Harry's attention from his marvelling. Jean had unloaded the trunks and was watching Harry and Neville gaze, awestruck, upon the Academy. A satisfied smile settle upon his lips.

"Welcome to Beauxbatons." His tone was similarly satisfied, nearly smug, yet Harry found that he could hardly blame the man. He had every reason to be.

* * *

 Jean didn't lead them into the Academy. After unloading the trunks, the man gave a piercing whistle in the direction of the barn that was met moments later by the appearance of two grooms. They immediately set to work leading the Pegasus to the side, practiced fingers unhinging the steeds from their burden. Jean barely spared them a glance before turning towards Harry and Neville.

"Right, so you know what you've got to do?"

Harry exchanged a nervous glance with Neville – the other boy's face deceptively blank with incomprehension – before shaking his head at Jean. "Um… no, we were just told that we were to come to the Academy and that someone would meet us to take us to the Headmistress."

Nodding, Jean sniffed distractedly. "No drama, there's probably someone waiting at the Sign-In for you."

"Sign in?"

"Yeah, where you sign your names in to say you've made it to school. Safe and sound and all." The man smiled indulgently. Harry wondered if he honestly felt proud of himself for scaring his two passengers half to death. He found he could hardly hold it against him though; Jean's amusement was entirely free of malice.

Following Jean's gesture, a general flap towards the cottage to the side of the stable that Harry had assumed had been left for the grooms. Nodding his understanding, Harry quickly relayed Jean's words to Neville, before scooping Lyssy into his arms and hefting his trunk to standing. Sharing a friendly wave with Jean, he watched as their driver disappeared into the stables before turning himself towards the simple little cottage.

The interior of the cottage had a reception-like quality to it. Just inside the single heavy door was a wide desk of treated pine. An arrangement of parchments sheets and quills standing beside their inkwells were placed intermittently across its surface. The rest of the room behind the desk appeared to be a simple sitting arrangement; a fireplace with flickering fire that pulsed warmth throughout the room, a trio of couches more polished wood than cushion arranged in a ring around it. Twin bookshelves stood on either side of the fireplace, but other than that the room appeared empty as the shelves.

Stepping up towards the table, Harry scanned the parchments displayed. It was fairly self-explanatory; a list of names with a simple box to the right-hand side of each, titled 'Tick Upon Arrival'. Harry and Neville had barely impressed a mark each before a door to the right of the desk, overlooked at first given its mimicry of the surrounding walls, swung inward. The clipping of heeled boots rung on wooden floorboards.

The young woman who stepped into the room had to be a student, if perhaps a little older than Harry and Neville. She was dressed in a similar outfit to that which Harry and Neville wore, though the robes had a distinctly more feminine cut. A pointed beret sat atop her thick dark curls, resting with impossible precision upon her shoulders and only enhancing the formality her expression suggested proper. She stopped before them with a final click of her shoes; she was rather tall, and Harry spared half a glance towards her feet to realise they were excessively heeled.

"You are Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom, yes?"

Blinking in surprise, Harry shared a glance with Neville before nodding stiltedly. The girl hadn't even glanced towards the table to read there names; he could only assume there had been some sort of magical alarm to inform her of their arrival, perhaps an indentification charm of sorts. Opening his mouth nervously with the intention of seeking some form of guidance, he was spared the use of his stores of courage as the girl continued.

"My name is Bernadette Moreau. Sixth year, and Resident Spokeswoman for this year." She nodded her as though receiving a round of applause at the introduction, meeting first Harry's then Nevilles eyes and raising an eyebrow at the cat peering up from Harry's folded arms. She didn't comment, however, either at their lack of accolade or Lyssy's presence. "I have been assigned by Madame Maxine to lead you to her office upon your arrival. I expect you should find this to your satisfaction?"

It was so formal, so different to Jean's casual accent and easy manner, that it was almost unnerving. Harry naturally felt himself replying with similar reserve. "Please, that would be wonderful. I think we would be somewhat at a loose end without some direction." He paused, catching his lip between his teeth. "I apologise for the inconvenience. If it's not too much trouble…?"

The girl, Bernadette, gave a small smile. It was faintly less chilling than her previous expression but still held the distance of decorum. "Not at all, I assure you. It is simply another duty I am assigned in my position as Resident Spokeswoman."

"Still, I apologise. You must have had to arrive really early to meet us on time." For some reason, Harry felt guilty over the unforeseen intrusion on the speculated leisure time of the girl.

Shaking her head curtly, Bernadette tugged at the sleeves of her robe, straightening unseen creases. "Not at all. Sixth years are encouraged to return to school a week before term resumes for self-study with instructional support." She paused, frowning. "Do they not do that at Hogwarts?"

Harry shook his head slowly. He wasn't entirely sure, but he didn't think that even students in their final year would be eager to cut into their holidays for an early start on their studies. It was one difference between Beauxbatons and Hogwarts at least, on top of the lesser years of attendance – a year shorter in total – and the later age of initiation of studies. As a sixth year, Harry assumed the girl before him was eighteen, having started at the age of thirteen and hence in her final year.

Six years to study the same amount of content as Hogwarts' covers in seven years? No wonder they started back early.

Bernadette was speaking once more, but Harry was only listened with half an ear. It sounded as though she were attempting to sound regretful to the "poor Hogwarts school-leavers" who were afforded less face-to-face time. Instead he settled for tugging nervously at the tufts fo Lyssy's ears, mind already settling onto the nagging worries of his studies to come. When Bernadette finished with a sigh, right before shaking herself out of her slump and announcing in clipped words "if you'll follow me?", he similarly shook himself from his thoughts.

Really they had no choice. Bernadette walked past them through the front doors of the cottage with a purposeful stride and it was all Harry and Neville could to duck out of her way. Neville cast him a dark glance after the striding Spokeswoman before turning towards Harry. "What did she say?"

It took Harry a moment to gather his thoughts. Slowly, hesitantly, he relayed the conversation, albeit a censored version. He didn't mention Bernadette's condescension towards their British sister school. Was it an unrealised rivalry, the tension between Beauxbatons and Hogwarts? Members from each institution certainly seemed to harbour an unnaturally large resentment towards the other.

Once more trailing their trunks, Harry and Neville hastened across the lawn in Bernadette's wake. She moved surprisingly quickly for one in such high shoes. Neville evidently felt the same, murmuring a muted, "I'd like to see her climb all those stairs in those shoes." Harry bit back a smile.

As it happened, they didn't even use the stairs. Bernadette, speaking over her shoulder with barely a glance as she led them to the nearest staircase, explained that they were simply for show. That no one actually climbed the stairs unless they were seeking an easy means of straining their calf muscles. The tunnel they found themselves trekking instead, flickering into visibility as they stepped within ten feet of the base of the approaching tower, led them underground.

It was "The secret passage to the elevating system," Bernadette explained as she led them into darkness illuminated by ambient blue light. An elevating system that was not, Harry came to realise shortly afterwards, an elevator. Following a five-minute walk into what felt like the heart of the mountain the tower clung to, along immaculately clean passageways of dark stone and pale floors, Bernadette drew them to a stop before a gateway. The arch was perhaps two feet taller than Harry's head and carved into the stone amidst precise filigree were the words ' _A posse ad esse'_. From possibility to actuality. The school motto, Harry recalled.

Bernadette indicated that they should leave their trunks in the little bay to the side of the door. "The elves will pick them up and take them to your assigned rooms," she announced in her clipped tone. Harry was beginning to feel just a little cowed by the impression she gave, but suspected from her occasional fidgeting and the tension tightening her shoulders that the girl was mostly acting so to maintain her assumed etiquette. She was probably new to her 'spokeswoman' position, Harry rationalised, and felt like she had to follow the rules within an inch. The repeated self-referencing as said 'Resident Spokeswoman' only enhanced Harry's suspicions.

"If you'll follow me, please hold your breath upon stepping into the elevator or you shall experience a discomforting dizziness upon landing." Without a backward glance, in a bouncing step that jostled dark curls, Bernadette stepped through the archway. A sound light a vacuum cleaner sucking at empty air snapped into existence and, with the force of that vacuum, Bernadette sucked into the air. Harry flinched, stepping back, while Neville yelped out in horror, peering through the doorway towards the ceiling given that as Harry similarly as though hoping to catch a glimpse of the disappeared girl. Or lackthereof of a ceiling, Harry noticed, as hesitantly peering through the doorway alongside his friend he found himself staring at a tunnel equally long and darkly lit that extended overhead into blackness. Exchanging a worried glance with Neville, Harry belatedly realised he hadn't understood her explanation. It would take time to get used to his current role as a permanent translator.

"It's alright, it's just the 'elevating system'. Take us up to the towers, I assume." He gave a small, sheepish smile of apology as Neville wiped a hand over his face.

"This bloody language barrier. It'll be the death of me," he sighed. "Did she say anything else?"

"Only to hold your breath when it sucks you up there." Harry shrugged, peering through the archway once more. "And to leave our trunks down here for the elves. Other than that, I've no idea."

Straightening his back, Neville seemed to mentally prepare himself. "Well, live and learn." And with a resolute nod of his head and more courage than Harry possessed he stepped through the archway. Harry thought he heard a faint squeal before Neville disappeared with a soft whoosh.

It was eerily silent down in the tunnel alone. Hitching Lyssy in his arms, Harry tucked her more firmly into his chest; it was a nervous fiddling as much as he deemed it necessary for stability. Not for the first time he missed the presence of the little communication collar Draco had given him last Christmas. In that moment, that collar was wrapped securely around the neck of a juvenile hydra who, by most accounts, currently resided alongside the giant squid in the Black Lake. Harry doubted he'd be seeing it again. The thought was saddening, as much because it was a loss of the gift Draco had given him as it was a silencing of his communication with Lyssy.

The cat seemed to understand regardless, however, and frequently butted herself against him in a non-verbal conveyance. She snuggled, purring, into Harry's shirt as he stepped into the elevating system –

\- and was well and truly thankful for Bernadette's caution. Not a vacuum but a forceful wind seemed to grab him in its manic grasp and launch him into the air with the speed of an arrow shot from a bow. Harry felt his chest compress almost painfully. The air crushed, pulled, then released, and always urging rising. It was discomforting and jarring, dizzying and…

It abruptly stopped. Just as swiftly as it started. Without quite knowing how he'd gotten there, Harry found himself wobbling on a platform suspended over the dark, cavernous tunnel leading to the underground below. Before him stood an archway similar to that he had just passed. Neville and Bernadette stood outside, the former looking rather windswept and red-cheeked, while the Spokeswoman had not a curl out of place. Nodding her head slightly, she paused only long enough to ask, "Shall we?" before turning on her heel and starting down the wide corridor to the right. Harry and Neville hastened after her like ducklings chasing their mother; it seemed to be all they'd done since meeting the girl.

The interior of the towers gave credence to the 'palace-like' impression Harry had observed from the carriage. Tall, white ceilings with elaborate cornices streaked in gold matched white walls broken by a smattering of moving pictures on the left wall. A lush rug in the Beauxbatons colours of periwinkle and embroidered gold centred the corridor over dark wooden floors. Waist-high cabinets and polished tables were spaced evenly along the walls, supporting vases and array of flowers, elaborate candlesticks or odd little sculpture of creatures and regal figures carved from stone and polished wood.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wreathed in gossamer curtains lined the right hand wall, affording a view of the valley below. The sunlight streaming through illuminated the whiteness of the walls almost blindingly. Peering through the glass as they passed, Harry realised just how far the elevating system had launched them into the tower. They were quite significantly off the ground, and he could only just make out the carriage bay through the slightly fogged glass. The windows seemed curved, following the contours of the corridor as it curled lazily inwards. The natural shape of the tower, Harry supposed.

Most of all, however, was the overall impression of pristine cleanliness that seemed to breathe from the tower's very floors. Far different it from Hogwarts that carried the homely, familiar impression of aged stone, the corridor they strode along gave the impression of aloof detachedness that reminded Harry distinctly of the girl that lead them smartly with barely an infrequent backwards glance. Everything was polished, flawless, so much so that Harry almost resisted stepping onto the rug for fear of dirtying it, despite the newness of his shoes. He doubted he could find a streak of dust in the entire academy if he searched for it.

Bernadette seemed to take it as her duty to keep up a constant litany as she led them. She spoke solely of the history of the school, and there was a ring of pride to her tone, as though the accomplishments of the residents of the past were her own. She spoke once more over her shoulder to them, glancing only occasionally throughout her continued speech as though ensuring they remained attentive.

"…and even though the palace is over seven hundred years old, the structures still remain on of the most impressive feats of architecture in all of Wizarding France. The descendants of our founders, Papillonlisse, Bellefeuille, and Ombreilune, remain directly involved in the promotion and maintenance of the academy to ensure it maintains both its social and academic status. Just last year, we received the highest overall grades for _Botanique_ , _Metamorphose_ and _Musique et Drame_ internationally. This expemplary performance has been consistently maintained since the early 1800s, when the first comparisons were made…"

"I can't understand a word she's saying,' Neville muttered beneath his breath. Glancing towards him, Harry noticed the decidedly uneasy slump to his shoulders. Once more he bit his lip at his forgetfulness, though this time he could hardly claim responsibility. He couldn't very well translate Bernadette word for word; he doubted he'd even be able to keep up. Still, it must be horrible to be unable to understand the words spoken directly to him. Harry remembered only too well what that was like from when he had first made the sea change when he was eleven.

Opening his mouth hesitantly, Harry waited for Bernadette to take a breath before interrupting. It was no easy feat, and not only because Harry was not fond doing so; the girl barely seemed to need to breathe at all. "Bernadette? Um… I'm sorry, but my friend Neville, he can't understand French. I was wondering…?"

Bernadette paused in her step, half-turning and snapping her eyes on Neville. Her eyebrows rose in surprise and she blinked rapidly. "He can't understand me?" Still in French, Harry noted.

Shaking his head, Harry muttered an apology. "He's learning, but has only been doing so for about a week."

Still blinking, almost spasming, Bernadette cleared her throat. "I… I don't speak English. Not fluently, at least." She frowned, pursing her lips. A look that could have been regretful flickered briefly across her face. It was a pleasant break from the cold rigidity of formality. Opening her mouth, she stuttered in broken English towards Neville. "I am being very sorry. I did not know you spoke no French. I am sorry."

It was brief and to the point, and a second later the Spokeswoman had tunred on her heel once more and started down the corridor, picking up her pre-prepared speech as she went. In French, naturally. However, it may have been his imagination, but Harry thought some of the iciness had melted slightly from her tone, the tension a little from her shoulders. And while Neville still glowered, the same could be said for him; if not at ease, he appeared less likely to snap beneath his own tension. He settled for looking out of the window rather than feigning listening to Bernadette's words. Harry attempted to pay as much attention to the Spokeswoman as he could, resolving that he would relay it to Neville later. That much at least he could do.

They'd been walking for nearly ten minutes, through corridors and at times bearing left into a spiral-like stairwell that seemed to coil up the centre of the tower to reemerge a floor higher, before Bernadette finally stopped for a second time at a point that looked largely indiscernible from those around it. The door she paused before was of a glistening white that was far too pale to be simply wooden. A golden handle sprouted from the centre of elaborate carvings of flowers, vines and bowing trees.

"This is the Headmistress's office. She will further inform you of all you need to know, everything that your House Heads will not." Gesturing towards the door with a manicured hand, Bernadette took a step back. Knowing that Neville had no idea what was happening – or if he did, only the very basics gleaned with his rudimentary knowledge of French – Harry stepped past Bernadette with a word of thanks for her guidance. Dropping Lyssy to the floor – he didn't quite know what to expect of the new Headmistress, but thought it best to make the most formal impression he could - steeled himself, and knocked on the door.

The doors opened of their own accord an instant later.

Stepping hesitantly into the room, Harry was disconcerted when, not a moment after crossing the threshold, the doors swung shut behind him. The feeling was lost, however, when he turned his attention to the room he'd stepped into. He felt his eyes widen in surprise.

The interior of the Headmistress of Beauxbatons' office was not at all like that of Hogwarts. First of all, it hardly seemed to be an office at all. The image that came to mind for Harry was the parlour at Draco's house. It carried the same atmosphere, if not the exact furniture, though even so,Harry felt he would be more likely to find the reclining couches, wide, glass coffee table and double doors to a marble balcony in a high-class residence than an office of any description. A grand piano sat in the corner nearest the balcony and a chandelier hung from the high ceiling overhead. It suited the palace theme perfectly. The only elements that even slightly suggested the room to be an office were a relatively small desk seating a throne-backed chair and a low bookshelf running the length of one wall more cluttered with oddly shaped glass instruments than books.

It was only when the woman stood from her seat in the corner of the room that Harry actually noticed her. And rose she did. At least as tall as Hagrid, the Headmistress of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic towered elbows, head and shoulders over both boys. She was a regal woman, dressed in thick, navy robes of high collar and shoulder pads, her dark hair pulled back tightly from her thin face to give the darkness of her thin eyes an impression of intensity. The impression was only heightened, not lessened, when she took a step away from the couch and spread her arms before her, almost beseechingly.

"Monsieur Longbottom, Monsieur Potter. I welcome you to Beauxbatons Academie de la Magie." She bowed her head slightly, formally, in welcome.

It took Harry a moment to realise she spoke in English. He felt a tension he hadn't realised sat on his shoulders ease. By his side, Neville similarly eased his tautness. Spurred perhaps by his ability to communicate, Neville stepped forwards. "Thank you, Madame Maxine. And thank you again for so kindly approving of our request to transfer to you school."

"Not at all," the tall woman, Maxine, nodded her head once more, graciously accepting the gratitude. 'But please, I am sure you would wish to sit down. Tea?' Gesturing towards the cushioned lounges around her, the Headmistress urged the boys to her side. They did so with more than a touch of awkwardness, and Harry knew he wasn't alone in sitting on the edge of his seat when they all settled themselves. Despite their similarity in roles, the Headmistress of Beauxbatons reminded Harry very little of either Dumbledore or McGonagall.

Drawing her wand, Maxine conjured a teapot, teacups and a plate of biscuits from thin air. She helped herself to a cup before speaking continuing with her introduction."I trust your travels were satisfactory? You did not 'ave troubles finding your way."

"Not at all," Neville replied, shaking his head. Harry bobbed his own in agreement, but for the most part was content to let Neville take the reins in the conversation. The relief of simply being able to understand was palpable in his friend's posture. "Your guide – Miss Bernadette Moreau? – was more than helpful enough."

"I am pleased." Maxine gave a small, polite smile. "We 'ave not 'ad a transfer student in our 'alls for many years; you set a precedent once more, Monsieur Longbottom." She tilted her head meaningfully and Neville flushed a faint pink. It took Harry a moment to discern the meaning of the comment before the memory of Neville's tale, of the Triwizard Tournament, arose.

"Ah, yes, I do seem to be making a habit of that, don't I?" The smile Neville gave was forced at best.

"Yet, as I 'ave been assured, zrough no fault of your own." Maxine reached for a biscuit from the delicate little coffee table and took a bite with surprising delicacy for a woman so large. The biscuit was barely the size of her thumbnail. "I trust you are aware of ze appropriate conduct for zis Academie?"

Neville nodded fervently. "Of course, Headmistress. I don't seek to further any further, um… questionable exploits I might have undertaken at Hogwarts." He paused, wince flashing across his face briefly as he realised he'd all but confessed to being a troublemaker. Shaking it off with deliberate force, he continued. "I only want to finish my education, and to complete it to the best of my abilities."

Maxine stared at him silently for a moment, raising her teacup to her lips unconsciously and sipping. She seemed to be studying him, assessing him for something that he was evidently sufficient in for she eventually nodded her head. Only to turn to Harry instead. "And you, Monsieur Potter? What are your intentions for your schooling at Beauxbatons?"

Harry felt himself shrink in his seat. He couldn't help it. He'd never been fond of being the centre of attention, and Maxine's eyes, nearly black for their darkness, seemed to pin him under a spotlight. He struggled for a moment to find his voice. "I have spent little enough time studying magic, Madame; there is so little I know. I am aware of the gaps in my knowledge and wish to rectify that error." He paused, considering. "I'm under no illusions that I'll be a star pupil. Though I've studied as much as I possibly could, I know that doing so couldn't possibly make up for the experience I am deficit in." He bowed his head at that last, unwilling to meet the woman's eyes a moment longer.

Quiet once more, Maxine appeared to think deeply before replying. "Zis is very astute of you, Monsieur Potter. I appreciate when students realise zeir own ineptitudes as well as zeir skills. It lends itself to improvement." There was a faint clink as she set her teacup down on the glass table. Harry raised his head at the motion. "Now, I believe we should get to ze most important reasons for your visit to see me."

With a wave of her wand, the Headmistress conjured a pair of scrolls from thin air. They floated gently towards Harry and Neville respectively and, upon Maxine's urging, both boys reached forwards and unrolled the parchments.

Each was roughly a foot in length and half as wide. Spread across the creamy surface in blue ink was what appeared to be a map of sorts. Four large structures were interconnected by an array of thin lines surrounded by a smattering of shaded areas labelled with cursive, descriptive terms from 'vegetation' to 'rock formation'. A river could be seen passing nearby the building marked 'stables', all compiled to form…

"A map of the school?"

Maxine nodded at Neville's question. "Zis is ze standard map issued to all first year students. As you can see, it illustrates ze entire school." Leaning forward in her seat, she gestured with her exceptionally long wand onto a pair of boxes marked 'up' and 'down' at the top of the page. Tapping the upper box, the ink across the map writhed and morphed briefly like unearthed worms before reforming in a slightly different arrangement. "Using you wand, zese will allow you to move zrough the fourteen floors of ze towers accordingly."

With another gesture, Maxine encouraged them both to fiddle with the map's mechanics. Neville drew his wand from his pocket and quickly flicked through the series of floors, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. Harry, curious himself, ran his fingers over the 'buttons' in a similar motion.

"You will 'ave to use your wand to –" Maxine abruptly cut off, frowning curiously as she peered at Harry's map. Glancing between the Headmistress and the parchment in his hands, Harry felt himself begin to flush. How embarrassing…

At his side, Neville uttered a barely audible snort of amusement. "Harry is rather adept at wandless magic, Headmistress. In fact, I think he rather finds it easier to not use a wand."

The curiosity in Maxine's eyes sparked more noticeably. Harry found himself shrinking even more beneath their focus than he had at her previous study. "Ah, I 'ad 'eard, but I was not certain…" She switched her glance between harry and Neville, consideration lining her brow. "You are both quite exceptional young wizards, Monsieur Longbottom, Monsiuer Potter. Even disregarding ze events of last year, which one does not…"

It was Neville's turn to look embarrassed this time. Fiddling with his map awkwardly, he seemed to be having difficulty deciding deciding where to look. "Erm… well, I suppose you could say that. Maybe."

"I am curious; what areas do you both wish to pursue upon completion of your final exams?" Maxine tilted her head slightly towards Harry before fastening her gaze once more on Neville. "Monsieur Longbottom, I would suppose you 'ave a taste for Defensive magic?"

Rubbing the side of his head in continued awkwardness, Neville shrugged one shoulder. "Yeah, I suppose I've had a bit of, um… experience in that field. But I think probably… Herbology, Headmistress."

"Botanique?"

"Bot…? Er, yes, botanic. I have an interest in plants." Neville seemed to be edging himself into greater and greater awkwardness with each passing moment. He glanced almost pleadingly towards Harry. "Harry, though; I think he's more…?"

As Maxine swung her gaze towards him, Harry dropped his head once more. "I've more of a passion for Magical Creatures, Madame. At least, that's my current pursuit."

Maxine nodded her head, the frown still resting upon her brow but not angrily. " _Oui_ , I suppose such is apparent from your timetables." As though triggered by the thought, she raised her wand once more and another pair of scrolls appeared in the air before Harry and Neville. They unrolled them to reveal a rough timetable, with the mealtimes and curfews included. "Zese are your personalised timetables. All should be matched to your specifications accordingly. Should you 'ave any difficulties, please seek your Resident Fellow or 'Ead of 'Ouse."

"Resident fellow?" Neville lifted his eyes briefly from his parchment, raising an eyebrow.

"I believe you 'ave such equivalents as, ah, prefects?" At Neville's comprehending nod, Maxine continued. "Each year of each 'ouse 'as an appointed Resident Fellow who acts as class representative."

"Is that the same as the Resident Spokeswoman? What Bern- um, Miss Moreau was?"

" _Non_ , Madamoiselle Moreau is the, ah, what do you call… 'Ead Girl?" At Neville's repeated nod, Maxine subsided.

Harry listened with half an ear as he gazed down at his timetable. It was slightly more rigid than that of Hogwarts', adhering more cosely to times and procedure. Harry read through the classes _–_ _Soin de Créatures Magiques,_ _Metamorphose,_ _Défense Contre les Arts Sombre, Botanique, Histoire de Magie, Sortilèges_ , Potions – all equivalent to those he had undertaken at Hogwarts with only minor differences to the curriculum as outlined in the unit guidelines. That, and the addition of _Musique et Drame_ , which the letter he'd received accompanying their timetable form months before had indicated was a compulsory subject until final year. It had been a bit of a relief to realise that he wouldn't have to learn a number of entirely new subjects from scratch once more. And with the assistance of the map – rather handy, he thought – the next day was not looking quite as daunting as he had formely considered it to be.

 _We can work through this. This is a good thing, a good thing. Neville and I, we came to this school for a reason._ Harry resolutely thrust the tingling memory of that reason before it could claw its way forth. _I'll get used to it, just like I got used to Hogwarts. And every chance I get, Draco…_

"So we're not separated into Houses?" Neville was saking, drawing Harry's attention. He glanced up from his parchment towards the Headmistress.

"Of course, zere are 'ouses that you shall be sorted into. In first year, every student is allocated zeir 'ouse." Leaning forwards, Maxine tapped gently upon the map in Neville's hands, over the roughly circular shape of one of the towers. "Zis, ze Western Tower, is ze dormitories for ze students. It is split into _trios_ , and all 'ouses are separately accordingly. You are familiar with ze 'ouses?"

"Yes," Harry murmured, at the same instant that Neville said, "No". Harry bit back a sigh; evidently, Neville hadn't read through the introductory handbooklet. Understandable, Harry supposed, given that it was in French, but even off the top of his head Harry could think of two charms that could translate it without too much effort or inconsistencies. The boys shared a glance, Neville frowning pointedly, but Maxine didn't seem to care.

"The _trios_ 'ouses are named for ze founders of zis school: Rene Bellefeuille, Brie Papillonlisse, and Lucian Ombrelune. Each 'ouse is characteristic of ze traits of its pupils. I recall, 'Ogwarts is not unlike zis?"

Harry and Neville nodded their heads in unison. "Yes," Neville replied. "The four founders of Hogwarts."

"It is similar to Beauxbatons. A drop of blood into _La Piscine de Tri_ will assist ze judge in sorting and deciding which 'ouse is best for you."

A drop of blood? Harry felt faintly nauseous at the thought. And a Sorting Pool? What happened to the Hogwarts good old-fashioned, non-intrusive method of using a sentient hat? It seemed Beauxbatons simply had to take it that much further, be just that much more extravagent.

"Sorting? Oh, I guess that's…" Neville glanced towards Harry, a thoughtful cast to his expression. "Though I think Harry might have a bit of a problem with that."

"Neville," Harry hissed under his breath, but it was too late.

Maxine arched an questioniong eyebrow. "What do you mean by zat?"

Shrugging, Neville, ignored the glare Harry attempted to stab him with. "Only that, back at Hogwarts, the Sorting Hat couldn't sort him for some reason. Something about being too old to suit just one or something, wasn't it? Said he fit just about every house at least a little bit and it couldn't place him."

Slowly turning her head towards Harry, Maxine regarded him with the same intensity she had shown them upon arrival. A thin smile curled her mouth; it wasn't altogether reassuring. " _La Piscine de Tri_ is infallible. I do not zink… _non_ , it is not open to 'edging it's decision. Zere is no sentience in ze chooser. You are one 'ouse, or you are another. It won't have such difficulties." She seemed confident enough in her claim that Harry almost believed her off the bat. Rising to her feet to tower seemingly as tall as the building in which she stood, the Headmistress urged them to follow her lead. "Come. Per'aps we should see to this matter now."

Rising to their own feet to follow closely in the woman's footsteps, Harry and Neville passed from the greater 'office' into an small side room through a door short enough that Madame Maxine had to boy to enter. A significantly smaller room, as it were, and it seemed to hold only a single stone pedestal balancing a cauldron-like bowl of clear glass. Inside, an icy blue liquid spun lazily, as viscious as honey.

" _La_ _Piscine_ is removed from zis room only once a year, for ze placement of the students into zeir 'ouses." Maxine slowly circulated the room, as though patrolling the walls and skirting behind Harry and Neville like a lecturing professor. It certainly gave her a teacherly impression. "Ozerwise it remains in zis room. Ze magic is very potent; as such, warding is to be placed on all four walls to prevent speepage."

Harry shifted uneasily. The description the Headmistress gave sounded nothing if not radioactive. He took a half-step back from the glittering pool, abruptly uncertain he wished to participate in the approaching procedure. Though it was unlikely he had a choice.

"I zink we shall get zis underway, do you agree?" Maxine paused in her pacing and tilted her head towards the both of them, as though she expected either to voice their honest opinion. "Ze sooner you are sorted into your 'ouses, ze sooner you can become settled into your dormitories."

Neville nodded his understanding, stepping forwards slightly towards the bowl. Harry, still uneasy, had to fight the urge to refute the woman. He settled for remaining silent instead, eyes fixed upon his friend.

It was a rather horrible process to watch, though not because it was gorey. More because of the ritualistic atmosphere the image of the Headmistress presented, with the needle-thin dagger poised overhead for a moment before leaning in with practiced care to prick the side of Neville's finger. For a brief moment, Sirius' words – "no cultist conventions" – rung through Harry's head and he had to bite back the urge to giggle hysterically.

Maxine captured Nevilles hand in one of her own large palms, held it for a moment until a bead of blood squeezed through the skin of Neville's finger, and slowly tipped the droplet into the icy mixture. Even from the distance Harry was standing he could see the vivid redness spread and dilute, shedding thin tendrils throughout the contrasting blueness. The blueness of the solvent glowed briefly, momentarily, before in a rapid, vortex-like swirl it undulated in a wave and abruptly became a rich, healthy green. The green of clovers, opaque and seamless.

"Bellefeuille," Maxine announced abruptly. She nodded, satisfied.

"Beg pardon?" Neville's tone sounded bemused, as though the Headmistress had uttered a cuss at him rather than announcing his house.

"Of the noble 'Ouse of Bellefeuille the Brave, the naturalist, the loyal. Zis is your 'ouse."

"Oh, right," Neville nodded his head slowly, a self-depricating grin spreading across his face. He stuck his finger in his mouth idly, ridding it of the tiny spot of blood. "Right. I guess I should probably read up on what exactly that means." Maxine looked less than pleased at his blasé attitude, but Neville didn't even seem to notice. And in no time at all, the Headmistress had turned her attention instead to Harry.

"Monsieur Potter, if you please."

Harry swallowed thickly, eyes fixing upon the needle-dagger in Maxine's fingers. It looked even smaller than it was for the size of her fingers, but its connotations could hardly be denied. Neville sowly drew his finger from his mouth, swtiching his gaze between Harry and the object of his focus.

"Harry, it's not that bad. Didn't even hurt. And you know, apparently this pool thing is better at making decisions that the Sorting Hat." He grinned once more, though it slid quickly off his face when he saw it made no impression on Harry's nerves. "Just get it over with quickly? Just make sure you try and ask to get in my house, Belle… whatever it's called."

A firm pat on Harry's shoulder and a slight nudge had him stepping slowly towards the edge of the bowl. He glanced up at Maxine again; she looked to be in deep thought at his reaction, though Harry couldn't fathom why. Surely he couldn't be the only student to have balked at such a ritual, and he wasn't even haemophobic. At least, he hadn't been before…

When Maxine pricked his finger, everything came crashign forth, welling up alongside the droplet of blood beading on his finger. Harry had known it would happen. The scant few times he'd bore witness to dripping blood since the Battle of Hogwarts had always resulted in as much. The image flashed before his eyes.

_A_ _red rose blossomed and dribbled a single, thick stream down the man's nose-less face…his eyes widened minutely, but only for a moment… only a moment before, in a fall that seemed wired in slow motion, the figure of Voldemort crumpled to the floor…_

Harry flinched as the vision played out over his mind. It was both a gift and a curse, his memory; though he naturally remembered that which he heard better, his visual memory was horribly acute as well. Strong memories, powerful memories, seemed to play themselves out in his mind as though occurring right before him with perfect detail. He felt a chill, a prickle of sweat lick his brow, his breath hitched and –

"Monsieur Potter, are you quite alright?"

Maxine's voice shattered the spell. Blinking rapidly, Harry was drawn like a fish on a line back into the room, into the present. His eyes fixed not on a dead body but on the barely-there spot of blood on his finger, cradled in the Headmistresses hand. Unexpectedly, he felt a soft warmth at his ankle, though the unexpectedness disappeared almost instantly. Harry didn't even need to look down to know it was Lyssy coiling around his ankles, offering her strange kind of support. _She's always there when I need her most_. He hadn't been aware that his little Familiar had followed him into the Headmistress's office, but it was enough of a reassurance for him to compose himself. Nodding slowly, shakily, then with more confidence, Harry attempted a smile. Perhaps that was asking too much, however, for he feared he failed dismally.

The tall woman before him seemed to take his weak smile as an indication to proceed. She paused only for a moment longer, frowning slightly at his face as though attempting to read the blurred script of a book, before turning his hand in her own. The droplet of blood rolled across his finger like a tear, falling into the icy-blue pool with a faint yet audible plop.

The honey-like substance roiled momentarily, breaking the bloody droplet apart into its ribbon-like tendrils. Spreading like a network of roots, the redness seeped through the liquid and, just before the stretching fingertips brushed the base of the pool, there was another undulation. A colour change.

And the ice blue darkened to a deep, royal purple.

Harry stared blankly at the colour, rapidly spreading to an opaque thickness. Then the realisation hit. _Oh…so Neville and I, we're not…_

"Papillonlisse," Maxine murmured, though from her it was more like a stage whisper for the resonance of her tone. She lifted her gaze to meet Harry's and it could have been his imagination but he thought he saw a brief flicker of apology rise from the darkness of her pupils before it quickly disappeared into objective calm. "I apologise, per'aps it would 'ave been better for you to be sorted into ze same 'ouses, but _La Piscine_ is infallible. And if it chose differently for each of you, zen it would 'ave 'ad reason to."

Turning slightly, Harry glanced towards Neville over his shoulder. The same disappointment, accompanied by a tinge of nervousness, twitched on the other boy's face.

Biting back a sigh, Harry turned back to the pool. All his self-reassurances, the silent pep-talks he'd carried out in his head, shattered to pieces under reality. He didn't realise just how much he'd been relying on the knowledge that, if nothing else, at least Neville and he were together.

It made the prospect of starting a new school suddenly wearisome once more. _Here we go again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, if you get the chance to leave a comment I'd really appreciate it. Thanks!


	3. Restarting Anew

Draco stared at the curl of parchment pinched between his fingers for what could have been the thousandth time that morning. His initial horror had faded slightly, leaving him with a cool numbness that was far too discomforting for him to concentrate on Professor Flitwick's words. So he chose to ignore the little Charms teacher and instead settled to brooding moodily throughout the morning.

_…_ _I'm so sorry, I tried everything I could, but Professeur Gizabelle was adamant; we're not permitted to leave the school grounds for the first three weeks of school. They say its too distruptive to the process of 'easing back into studies'._

_Really, I'm so sorry Draco. And I'm sorry the Sirius' mirrors don't seem to be working. I think it probably has something to do with the distance, but I'm not sure. I'll see if some of the teachers, or maybe out Resident Spokesperson, can have a look and see if they can tweak my one. But otherwise…_

Draco could almost see Harry bent over his desk, scribbling his message on the parchment with one of those pens he was so fond of using. The image was almost too heart-wrenching to consider; he missed Harry terribly, and it had barely been a week that they'd been apart. He wasn't sure if the letter before him, so typically Harry down to the tone, to the not-quite neat but still legible words in black ink, did more harm than good for his current state.

Three weeks. They wouldn't be able to meet for three weeks because some pompous Beauxbatons professor said it would "disrupt their students' studies". What a load of dragon dung. In its cyclic way, Draco felt his anger rise briefly, only to stutter and short, his sudden frustration quelling to a brooding melancholy. He'd been experiencing the same emotional undulations all morning, since he'd received the letter from giga raven that Harry had been given by Sirius for such purposes. He was nearly exhausting himself with his psychological turmoil.

Sighing, Draco turned to face the front of the room once more. Flitwick had jotted down what appeared to be a short essay of notes on the board and had since encouraged his students to attempt the rather tedious task of animating one of many distributed wooden puppets. Draco supposed it was a good thing he was so distracted by the letter; the sight of the marionettes clacking into motion, their flat faces turning slowly to peer with blank eyes at their charmers, was horribly disconcerting.

"You still looking at that letter?"

Glancing to his side, Draco met Blaise's curious expression, eyebrow raised questioningly. Draco shrugged, slipping said letter into his pocket and picking up his wand. Not that he had any intention of animating a puppet. Such a phenomenon was far too creepy.

"What's he got to say, then?"

Draco frowned. "Who?"

"Harry, of course. You only ever look so witsfully depressed when you're thinking about Harry. Though obviously something's smothered even that depression and left only murderous intent for the glare you've worn since reading that letter. I think you've scared at least half a dozen first years nearly to death."

Draco scowled, but Blaise simply grinned in response. Almost – _almost_ – he missed the first few days of the term, when Blaise had been too wrapped in his own thoughts to tease him. He'd been a little like a floating ghost when they'd first entered the Slytherin common room, the first time they'd passed over the threshold of the quarters that reminded them both so horribly of the friend they had lost. But, Blaise being Blaise, even as heartbroken as he was he couldn't seem to maintain his weary sadness. Though every so often and with sadening frequency a flicker of grief would resurface, Draco's friend seemed to have clawed his way back to normalcy remarkably well.

There was something to be said for being amongst friends. McGonagall had been right; the simple presence of those around them, those that had experienced a similar loss, was oddly warming. Not, not warming exactly. More… as though a solid weight had been lifted from his shoulders. A burden that he hadn't been fully aware he'd been carrying. Seeing others suffering while gradually learning to come to terms with the memories the halls of Hogwarts elicited gave Draco a strange sort of peace. It urged him to try not to thrust the memories from his mind, but instead to face them head on and see them for what they were: only memories.

On top of the support of likeminded people, the Headmistress had announced the morning after their arrival that the Ministry had appointed a pair of counsellors to the school for support to those who needed it. Draco had initially been sceptical of the kind-faced yet still stoically professional witch and wizard. It hadn't helped that every student had been scheduled into a meeting with one or the other of them for at least one session. Just to gauge their mental states, was the underlying understanding.

Draco had never been one to pour out his feelings to another person. The few people he had been able to do as much with – Harry and, to a degree, his mother – were absent from the school. So it came as a surprise to Draco when, after an initially stilted and awkward exchange with the wizard named Gerald Fitzherbert, he had begun to speak.

Or to spill, more appropriately. It must have been magically induced, or something of the sort, for Draco had never been comfortable enough with another person to share as much of his personal worries and heartaches as he did in that first meeting. Not only of the war but of his father's death, of his mother's recovery. Of Harry. It was only brief, barely touching on each subject, barely mentioning them at all, but it was enough to leave Draco surprised at his own forthrightness. He didn't really share that much at all; not only did it feel almost painfully discomforting to do so, but he had a standard to set, a public façade to maintain. Yet somehow the kind-faced ministry counsellor had slipped past his inhibitions and urged an honest response.

Suffice to say, Fitzherbert had suggested he come to see him for regular visits. At least until things "calmed down", was how he had described it. Somehow, the words hadn't been nearly as condescending as Draco would have anticipated them to be. He was currently scheduled for a similar session every Monday after classes. Indefinitely, Fitzherbert had specified unhelpfully.

Draco wasn't the only one undergoing such sessions he knew, though it was not public knowledge exactly what proportion of students were doing so as well. Few admitted as to needing as much, though Draco assumed the percentage of participants from the student body was large enough that it should hardly have been something that required covetedness. Draco was sure Blaise was seeing the witch, Wilkins, and relatively certain Ron was too. Hermione openly admitted she was receiving as much; she claimed there was nothing to be ashamed of, that benefitting from every service the school and ministry provided was simply practical. Draco struggled to agree with her, even as he similarly benefitted.

The first week back as Hogwarts had carried the wobbliness of a newborn colt on its wavering legs. The professors seemed to have unanimously agreed to take it easy on their pupils at least for the first few days, and to increase their leniency when certain situations deemed it necessary. There was the slight decrease in the number of students, and a general hush always seemed to pervade the Great Hall when previously it had been a place of deafening noise and babbles of conversation. But other than these slight changes the school was remarkably… normal. The reparations were exceptionally good, the walls of the school impossibly similar to those that had been shattered in the war.

It was satisfying, comforting even, to be surrounded by such familiarity. Such normalcy.

To top it all off, Draco was receiving nearly daily mail from his mother. If there was a lack of cause for profound positivity in the school, Narcissa seemed to be compensating for it. She was reportedly recovering splendidly, a recovery only boosted by her freedom from the rehabilitation centre she'd been "locked" in for nearly five months. The tone of her letters was perhaps a little too jovial to be entirely believable, but there was enough sincerity interlaced in the false cheer that Draco could believe it at least partially true.

The only scar upon his otherwise bump-free transition back into school life was the lack of Harry. It was odd, really. Or at least, it should have been. Harry had only been at Hogwarts for a year, and of that year he had been noticeably subdued for the most part, but his absence was like an ugly hole in an otherwise fragily complete painting. And Draco felt that hole as a yawning cavity in his chest each day he woke up by himself. He hadn't even realised how much he enjoyed sleeping beside his boyfriend – his partner, his _Harry_ – until that gift was abruptly taken from him.

They hadn't even been able to communicate through the two-way mirrors Sirius had oh-so-graciously allowed them to share. Upon their first try, barely a handful of words had been spoken between them before the image of Harry's face had fizzled and faded into nothingness. The mirror had been useless for a good twenty-four hours after that, at which point a reattempt had only produced similar results. The lack of contact, of so much as hearing Harry's voice, was urging Draco closer and closer to a potentially aggressive response.

And now he was told he'd have to wait three weeks…

"Three weeks for what?"

Draco hadn't realised he'd spoken aloud until Blaise answered him. Glancing around himself, he noted that his fellow seventh years were gradually packing away, leading their puppets – some still eerily animated enough to clatter on wooden feet behind their charmers like disjointed puppies – to the front of the room while others stashed books and quills into bags. Blaise was one such charmer; he was far too fond of puppets for his own good.

"None of your business," Draco grumbled in reply, stowing his wand up his sleeve.

Blaise sighed dramatically. "Ah, come, my friend. You've been depressed all morning –"

"I'm not depressed."

"-and as your friend and loyal supporter, it is my duty to attempt to shift you out of your stink."

Draco glared at his friend, who tilted his head expectantly towards him as Draco slowly slipped his own books back into his bag. He felt his disgruntlement swell for a moment before it abruptly dissapated. What was the point in hiding it anyway?

Sighing, he heaved himself to his feet. "Harry said he's not allowed off the school grounds for the first three weeks of term. Something about the professors wanting them to get into their studious mode or some such bollocks."

They were headed towards the door with brisk steps, and so Draco nearly left his friend behind when Blaise suddenly stalled. Glancing over his shoulder, Draco similarly stopped. "What?"

Blaise shook his head. A frown, a serious frown, crinkled his forehead. "That's absolutely ridiculous. They're not allowed off school grounds for three weeks? Who the hell came up with that rule?"

Draco shrugged silently, though he entirely and fervently agreed with Blaise. Bloody Beauxbatons. He'd always thought after fourth year that they had just a few to much hot air swelling their heads to be potential correspondents _._ The school was strict, and not only in their commitment to academia. They guarded their privacy like a dragon hoarded its gold; no one could even Apparate or Floo within one hundred kilometers of the place for the wards shrouding the region.

"How is Harry, anyway?" Continuing their departure from Charms, Blaise tilted his head curiously towards Draco. His voice was slightly guarded however, as though he had just poked a sleeping tiger with a stick.

Which would make Draco the tiger. It was acknowledgement of that fact, mollifying any stung pride, that stopped Draco from hissing and scowling, from claiming it none of Blaise's business. He struggled to remind himself that Harry was Blaise's friend too. And Blaise needed his friends, maybe almost as much as Draco needed Harry.

"He say's he's going alright. Though the first few days were hard because Neville and he were sorted into different houses."

"They were? Jeez, tough luck."

"Mm. You'd think the Headmistress – whatever her name is – could be a little lenient."

Nodding regretfully, Blaise sighed. "I suppose. Though, what with this whole 'restriction from leaving the school' and what-not, I guess it's to be expected." He paused, thinking. "It's Madame Maxine, by the way."

"What?"

"The Headmistress. You know, tall woman – very tall woman – dark hair, beady eyes. Dresses like a prude."

Draco snorted. "Really, Blaise?"

"Well, she does."

Shaking his head in disregard, Draco continued. "They have just about equivalent classes at Beauxbatons to Hogwarts, so transferring wasn't really a problem. Though both Harry and Nevlle do have to take a Music and Drama unit; it's compulsory until their final year."

"What? Neville's doing a Music class?" A bark of laughter echoed the length of hall. "Now that I'd love to see."

Turning in unison, Draco and Blaise sighted the distant yet approaching figures of Ron and Hermione. The red-head was whizzing towards them on his levitating chair with almost dangerously erratic speed. He was rather adept at controlling the contraption, and after his initial horror at being trapped in a state of permanent sitting he seemed to have taken to it like a fish to water. More, even, Ron apparently delighted in weaving like a broom-racer amongst the students in the hallways, eliciting shrieks of surprise as he narrowly avoided ploughing them into the ground. Hermione frequently gave him a formulaic dressing down but it hardly seemed to affect him.

As he approached, nearly bowling over a third year passing in the other direction, Draco noted the broad grin stretching across his face. "Yes, music and drama," he repeated. "I don't know which one Neville's specialising in. Didn't he tell you?"

Ron shook his head, chuckling in laughter once more. "Nope, not a peep. He mostly just talks about his housemates or bitches about the professors. This Tymon bloke who teaches Potions sounds like a right git. Must be part of the job description." He slowed to a whooshing halt at Blaise's side. "I'm gonna have so much fun teasing him about this one."

"No, Ron, you will not," Hermione chided, falling into step beside Draco as they reinitiated their progress towards the Great Hall. "Neville didn't say a word to you when you found out you'd be in a Motion Chair until you were fully healed. That's hardly fair."

"Yes, but Hermione, you forget. This is funny."Ron shared grin with Blaise, who snickered and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Draco recognised it as a measure of his approval. The pair had grown rather fond of one another, more than they had been in previous year, since school has reinitiated. A similar sense of humour, Draco supposed.

It was a testament to how well Ron's recovery was going that he didn't bat an eyelid when Hermione mentioned his confinement to the Motion Chair. Draco knew he was seeing a rehab mediwitch three times a week, but he wasn't aware of the progress his friend was making. It would be far too intrusive to ask, despite his curiosity.

Hermione had been fantastic throughout the entire process. From Ron's initial desolation upon discovering he was unable to move his legs, to his gradual climb back to positivity, she had held his hand every step of the day. Draco wasn't sure if they had finally overcome their awkwardness enough to take their relationship to the next level, as both so obviously wished to, but it hardly mattered. He doubted Hermione would forsake her support of Ron even if he never admitted his feelings. Though he'd be a fool not to. Hermione was brilliant.

It was almost… odd, how Draco could genuinely and satisfyingly admit such a reality about a Muggleborn classmate without an itch of discomfort. How times had changed since a year ago.

"Do you know what Harry's doing?"

Hermione's question caught his attention, though it was admittedly more a result of the mention of Harry's name than anything. It always triggered a startle response in him more profoundly than anything else, a fact Blaise was rather particular about pointing out at every opportunity. He shook his head. "They've only had a couple of classes, and he said that the Madame whatever-her-name-is is very picky about allocating their 'specialty'. Apparently, it's a rather pompous process to find the talent that 'embodies them'."

"What a load of rubbish," Ron muttered, though distractedly as he seemed rather intently focused upon skating his chair in slow rotations as they passed down a stairwell into the Entrance Hall. Draco silently agreed with him. He remembered a brief time in his childhood when his mother had attempted to cultivate any glimmer of his own muscial talent. Through piano, of course, for what other instrument would be more suitable to a Malfoy? He hadn't taken to it, and could barely remember the names of the keys. He did, however, remember quite vividly just how far said keys had flown from the piano when he'd smashed it with a chair leg. Not one of his proudest moments, he'd have to admit. But then, he'd been a terribly objectionable child; what more could he say?

Walking into the Great Hall, the four of them settled at Gryffindor table. There was a hush over the room, but it was only the usual hush that always hung suspended in the air at meal times rather than a comment on their chosen seating arrangement. It was now no longer even a question that they all sat together. No one, not Slytherin, not Gryffindor, nor the overly-opinionated Ravenclaws, had a word to say about it anymore. Not that Draco would have moved had they persisted verbalise their thoughts. It had taken an enormous effort, but eventually he'd been able to admit that he actually…liked spending time with the Gryffindors.

Whether it was by their leadership or the feeling of camaraderie instilled by the Battle of Hogwarts, such an inclination to mingle seemed to have infected the entire student body. Even as he drew his gaze around the hall Draco could see a number of students for varying houses sittign together. Justin Finch-Fletchley and Mandy Brocklehurst were sitting together at Ravenclaw table – natural, Draco supposed, considering them to be Head Boy and Girl. Finnigan had dragged Thomas over to the Hufflepuff table, and had been joined by a pair of Ravenclaws moments after seating. Third years sat with fifth years, Hufflepuffs at the Gryffindor table, students rising and moving to seats across the room as though it were perfectly natural and not considered a taboo but a year before. How times had changed.

There were not even any particularly noticeable outliers, not even in Slytherin, as one might have expected post-war. No exclusion, not even a faint wariness around their fellows. Draco suspected – no, he _knew_ – that the primary reason for this was a sad one; any and every student related to the Death Eaters even distantly had been withdrawn from Hogwarts, whether by their own desire or that of their families. Most of them seemed to have disappeared that remained were few, less than half of their original number, but whether it was for the words of their Headmaster or a change of heart from their fellow students, there was less ostracism than might have been anticipated. No, the Slytherins were accepted almost as readily as any of the other houses.

The absence of those many, of the young wizards and witches of questionable allegiance, was probably for the best, really. Everything was settling so well, students merging over the previous boundaries of the houses as though they were merely chalk drawings on the ground. If such prominent outliers existed… it would through a cat amongst the calmly clucking pigeons.

Perhaps it was cruel to consider it that way, but Draco couldn't think anything but. He was grateful, grateful that the strain that would have existed was absent, grateful that he didn't have to look at Crabbe every day and argue with himself over the hurt and anger, the guilt, that arose within him simply because seeing the son reminded him of the father, of what the father had nearly done and what he'd done in return. Draco was tired; tired of the war, of the fighting. He just wanted to be a student for as long as he still could be. At least this year such a possibility actually drifted towards the probable.

 _It's not my problem,_ Draco thought, shaking his head. For it wasn't. It shouldn't be his responsibility to clean up those after the war. It shouldn't be his duty. He'd had more than enough weight placed upon his own shoulders the previous year; it was his chance for a break. And if he needed convincing of such a leniency, his mother said so, Fitzherbert said so, even Snape said so. Harry did too. And besides, he had N.E. to consider. Taking a leaf out of Harry's book of practical suggestions, he would subside and allow the teachers to handle it for once. It was, after all, their job.

Satisfied with his own conclusions, Draco settled into his seat and picked up his fork.

* * *

 

The sun shed its warm morning rays through the half-drawn curtains, alighting upon his face. Slowly, with a muffled groan, Harry swum into wakefulness. His shoulders ached and there was tightness in his back that bespoke an unconscious tension held throughout the night. He knew the cause.

A nightmare. Another one. Again.

Sighing, Harry pushed himself to seating in his bed. The nightmares were an almost nightly occurrence, and he generally woke feeling just as tired if not more than when he had fallen to sleep. He couldn't even pinpoint exactly what he saw in the nightmares; a brief scattering of disjointed images sprung to mind each time he attempted: a thick, pumping wound of dark blood, the ring of screams cut short by a loud shout, the greyness of Draco's wide eyes. And on top of that, surprisingly, as though the events of earlier that year had opened the floodgates, the other memories: the sting of a slap across his cheek, the vicious taunts of his cousin as he was chased through a wooded playground, the heavy pants of his uncle in his ear as thick fingers fastened around his wrist.

He didn't know where it had come from. Harry had never had nightmares before. Ever. He knew, had come to realise gradually then with startling abruptness, that it would have been understandable if he had been effected by his past. That what his uncle had done, what the Dursley's had inflicted upon him, would naturally leave a physical and mental scar that would swell to the surface with the perfect trigger.

Only, they never had before. Not when Harry was locked in his cupboard as a small boy, when his Aunt Petunia had cursed him for being a hopeless cook and thrown an entire banquet's worth of food into the garbage for cooking it 'improperly'. After Aunt Marge had set her bulldogs on him, chasing him up a tree or Uncle Vernon had dragged him home from the meeting with the first teacher to ever utter a suspicious question and broken his little finger with the tightness of his grip. Not even when his Uncle Stephen had first demonstrated the truth of his guardianship.

It hadn't been a conscious effort to contain his memories, Harry knew. He'd simply done it, thrusting them into the closet of his past alongside his tendency to physically express his emotions through his face. Only that particular skill had been fractured nine months ago and he had only barely been able to get a grasp on the erratic capacity that was facial expressions since. Now, it seemed, the events of the Battle of Hogwarts had made splinters of his forbidden closet, spilling the contents with careless intent. Unfortunately, the memories seemed to manifest in repeated nightmares, even daydreams, that left him pale and cold, fingers clammy.

Why did it always have to happen so abruptly? There was no gradual ease into recognising the memories for what they were, allowing them to be slowly assimilated into who Harry was at a controllable rate. No, the doors of his hidden closet had been thrown wide open and the contents crashed upon him in a wave. Just like it had last Christmas.

Over the summer break it hadn't been so bad. Harry had Draco, for one. Most importantly, to be truthful. He hadn't spoken of his nightmares with Draco, but he knew he was aware of them. A number of times when he'd woken up during the night, at least in the beginning, it had been to blink blurrily into a concerned face and worried eyes. Thankfully, Draco never said anything, simply waiting for Harry to explain it himself. But Harry couldn't bring himself to.

So it was perhaps to be expected that, without Draco, whose presence wasn't even able dispel the nightmares, he would feel more unhinged. It was all he could do to hide it from his new classmates. Harry missed Draco terribly though, even putting aside his supporting presence, and it had only been one week. How would he last three until he could see him? He understood, theoretically, what the professors were trying to achieve by enforcing the 'no off-campus leave' for the first few weeks of term, but it didn't make it any easier to live with. He regretted, not for the first nor even the hundreth time, that the two-way mirrors didn't work. He'd have to work something out with that.

A sudden weight in his lap caused Harry to glance downwards. Lyssy peered up at him intently, her tail wrapping around her front paws as she sat herself up tall, peering at him with bright eyes. As he offered her a weak smile, she raised a paw and dabbed it gently at his right hand. The hand that was scratching idly at his collarbones.

He hadn't even noticed he'd started to do that again.

Sighing, Harry murmured a weary thanks to Lyssy, stroking a finger between her ears. He scooped her up to his shoulder as he swung his legs out of bed, easing from the warmth of thick, silken doona covers and onto the equally thick rug. The rooms allocated to Beauxbatons students were not large, about the size of his room at his uncle's house in Paris, but they were more than enough. The double bed was swathed in thick blankets and more pillows than entirely necessary. A desk was wedged in the corner of the room beside a free-standing cupboard and inbuilt bookshelf cluttered the room. Everything was constructed of pale pastels and contrasting dark woods, a common theme Harry had noticed throughout the school, and detailed in a delicate patterning of gilt that gave the distinct impression of wealth.

But more important than adequate furnishings, to Harry at least, was the privacy of the rooms. He'd worried at first that he'd be sharing a dormitory with his classmates. It was not that he felt himself above them – far from it – but he'd never shared a room with anyone except Draco. And Draco was different. But at least in the Papillonlisse dormitories of the Western Tower, the living quarters were divided. An endless hallway dotted with doors into such quarters spiralled up a long ramp, the younger students at the lower levels while the elder were stationed higher. Naturally, the boy and girl sections were separated; Harry had heard in passing that boys couldn't even pass through the door into the girl's dormitory. That they found themselves reappearing at the entrance to the common room instead.

Dressing absentmindedly, though leaving his hands ungloved for their lack of necessity, Harry gathered his school bag and books and headed towards the door. A glance to the artfully ticking clock above the door indicated it was just after seven o'clock. It was a little early to head down to breakfast given that it wasn't even served until a half-past, but Harry didn't care to spend any longer in his room. Besides, the trek through the Beauxbatons 'palace' was long enough. It would likely take him nearly until breakfast time to simply make his way down there.

His first week at Beauxbatons had passed in a hasty blur reminiscent of Harry's first days of Hogwarts, though that was where the similarities just about ended. Harry slipped into his classes with relative ease, and though within only a few days it was apparent that the learning pace was markedly faster than that of Hogwarts, he found himself keeping up relatively well. Which was a blessing as he spent as much spare time as he could afford with Neville, both attempting to teach him French and translating his notes for the other boy, whose own were as speckled with holes as a fishing net.

Neville had at first been nearly frantic with worry. The language barrier was a significant contributor to his fears, and Harry had initially despaired that the other boy would blow a fuse and take flight from the walls of the school like a fleeing bird at any moment. Neville was struggling with his own internal battle, and though he never spoke it, Harry knew it was as much due to the aftershock of the war, to the horrors he'd seen and the loss of his father, as for the dislocation from transferring schools. If Harry thought he'd been through a lot, it was nothing on what Neville had experienced. The other boy had died. How did anyone recover from that?

However, within a few days Neville's panic had mellowed. Harry suspected it had more than a bit to do with the support of his new housemates. Though initially the entire fifth year of Beauxbatons students had been wary and reserved in their admittance of the transfer students, their curiosity soon won the fight against caution. Neville, being the naturally friendly and amicable person that he was, had rapidly drawn a group of friends around him and easily slid into their midst. It helped that a number of them spoke English relatively well, though even in such a short time Harry noticed Neville's understanding of the native language grow. That simple act had settled him remarkably, easing some of the nervousness that had gnawed at them both at realising they were appointed to different houses.

Harry still felt a kind of sadness at the notion that they were separated, though Neville's ease did a lot to dampen his worries. His friend rarely failed to latch onto him in every class, even with the accompaniment of his classmates, a group of about five other boys and girls. Harry thanked him for the friendly support, but didn't seek it in the times when Neville forgot to offer it. He knew he was less of an actively sociable person and, unlike Neville had good reason to be, didn't feel the same degree of distress when studying alone.

That didn't mean that he didn't make acquaintences, if not precisely friends. In contrast to Neville, who seemed to attract the somewhat louder individuals of their year, Harry frequently found himself beside more studious individuals who, though quiet, informed him of their approval of his own studiousness with quite glances and small smiles. In a natural progression of circumstantial events, he found himself working alongside and amidst such fellows, the exchange of notes and quiet words flowing naturally. It was a reserved coexistence that Harry hadn't experienced at Hogwarts. He found he rather liked it.

As he descended the last of the ramp from the dormitories, exiting the Papillonlisse boy's living quarters, he nearly ran headlong into a girl departing the partnering quarters. A slight "eep" of surprise caused him to flinch, but a moment later he was sharing a small smile with Nataliha Jarvour.

"Oh, 'Arry! Good morning. You're up early."

Straightening himself, Harry blinked into the familiar face. "The same goes to you. How are you, Tali?"

The girl's smile widened, the usual little crinkles she got on her noses appearing. "Very well, thank you. Were you heading down to _La Grande Pièce_? Shall I show you the way? I recall you seem to be a little at ends with the layout of the school still. Mayhaps we can avoid wandering into the Southern Tower, yes?"

Nataliha – or Tali, as she vehemently enforced – was a short girl with wide lips, a pixie-cut crop of auburn hair that, along with her wide-set golden eyes, gave her a distinctly autumnal impression. She was a softly spoken girl, though it was all a disguise. Quiet as she seemed, when given the opportunity she would – and had on numerous occasions – talk Harry's ear off. Harry was amazed that she could say so much so rapidly and yet still appear to be such a quiet, unassuming girl. In anyone else, Harry would have found himself likely wearied by the constant string of words; the only one he was truly able to tolerate such verbosity from was Draco, and he admitted a certain bias for the blonde. But Tali always spoke with meaning, her words driven by consideration and thoughtfulness. He had to wonder at the speed of her thinking that she could upkeep such intense verbalisation. Their admittedly one-sided conversations, however, was one of the reasons he considered her possibly one of his closest aquaintances. Even a friend.

That, and she'd rescued him from wandering through the Southern Tower as a shortcut not three days before. Apparently the _professeurs_ Tower was out of bounds for students who didn't have an appointment.

"Only if you're already going down," Harry replied. He was rather ambivalent when it came to company at the best of times – loneliness was not something Harry believed himself truly capable of experiencing – but Tali was an agreeable companion.

"Of course. Early to bed, early to rise; I find I get more done in the day." She fell into step beside Harry. "Oh, _salut_ , Madamoiselle Lyssy. How are you this morning?"

As if in answer, Lyssy uttered a mew from Harry's shoulder, sliding around his neck to crane towards Tali's potentially stroking fingers. Tali wrinkled her nose in smile again and scratched the little cat between her ears. Which was only one more reason Harry liked her; she seemed rather taken with Lyssy. Not in the brief, frantic adoration of most of his other female classmates but rather in a slow-growing affection. She reminded him of Luna in that respect, alongside the one-way conversations she seemed to hold with the cat.

"Will she be accompanying us down to _Soin de Créatures Magiques_ again today?" Without a word of warning, Tali began picking at the stray cat hairs on Harry's shoulder. It would have startled him into withdrawng from the contact had she not done so before. "I think Clyntine was rather taken with her. Not that he isn't taken with most creatures. I suppose that's why he teaches what he does. Did you know he grew up on a manticore farm in north-east Spain?"

Harry shook his head yet was unable to get a word in edgeways as Tali continued to speak quickly. Yet quietly, always quietly. Not as though she feared being overheard but simply as though her voice was incapable of rising any louder that a loud murmur. Harry understood that feeling. Still, he wondered that Tali seemed to spend most of her time by herself, given how ardently she enjoyed to speak. He would have thought her more likely to take up residence in the midst of the most vocal of her classmates. Such was not the case.

The Palace of Beauxbatons – for that was what the students called it, regardless that at least from the outside Harry didn't think it looked all that much like a palace at all – was a network of wide, interconnected hallways that ran in a spiderweb pattern from almost every floor to each corresponding floor of every tower. It was at first a confusing mess of corridors that Harry had been daunted at beholding when looking at the map, but had rapidly come to realise was easier to understand without the assistance of the map entirely.

The Palace seemed to readily present itself with opportunities to reach one's destination at every turn, as though the very walls tuned into the thoughts of its residents to learn their destination. More than once Harry had rounded one of the tower's winding corners to find one of the arched passageways to the tower of he was headed towards where he had been certain one hadn't been before. Yet when he looked at the map, a matching mark was inked innocently on the paper. Neville hadn't even been surprised when Harry had mentioned his observation. He had likened it to the Marauder's Map he'd had a Hogwarts – of which he'd left in Ron's possession – though had ardently defended the Hogwart's as being 'better' than those Beauxbatons had supplied. Harry neglected to state that at least Beauxbatons provided maps to their students.

 _La Grand Pièce_ , where all of the meals were held, was located on the bottom floor of the Northern Tower. That tower similarly comprised the majority of theoretical studies classrooms. The Eastern Tower to its side was home to more of the practical subjects, while the studies for Magical Creatures took place in the Coop down near the Pegasus loading bay, right alongside the rather impressive arrangement of greenhouses for botanical studies. The school held an impressive array of magical plants, animals and to Neville's confusion and subsequent fascination, fungi, many of which were harvested from the surrounding mountains and valleys. Situated as they were in relative isolation, with only a clutch of houses overwhelmed by a surplus of boutiques and chain vendors in the colloquially termed 'Student Town', or _Rivierie Ville_ by the locals, there was a natural supply to constantly restock the teaching material with natives. Harry was gratified that he could share his pleasure over such a surplus with Tali; though Neville showed similar enthusiasm for the plants gathered, the Beauxbatons girl tended to emulate his passion for magical creatures, though admittedly her focus was more on marine and aquatic species. It was another reason Harry considered them almost friends.

Outside of _La Grand Pièce_ , the owl port was already teeming with feathered deliveries. Unlike Hogwarts, mail was not dropped ceremoniously atop the heads of unsuspecting diners. A number of Beauxbatons students had adopted horrified expressions when Neville had commented on the lack of avian disruption, with the fifth-year Bellefeuille twins, as they were collectively called, professing at length and in tandem how unhygienic such a system was. Harry and Tali paused long enough to poke their heads in and check for their own mail. At the sight of the giga raven perched like the black sheep of the flock amidst the owls, Harry's breath caught and he hastened to untie the twine. Only to struggle with a wave of disappointment when he recognised his godfather's handwriting rather than Draco's.

It was wrong, Harry knew. It wasn't that he didn't want to hear from Sirius, but… Ideally, Harry would rather they establish a system that used different species of birds, or at least distinctly different ravens, for Draco and Sirius. The come-down after the rush of excitement at considering he'd hear from Draco was a cruelty to Sirius, even if the man wasn't aware of it. Harry attempted to instil some sense of complacency in himself as he followed Tali from the owl port.

"Is that not from your boyfriend?"

Starting, Harry glanced towards Tali. Her face was a picture of mild curiosity and she had neglected the single letter in her own hand to question him. "What?"

She inclined her head towards the as-yet unopened letter. "You seemed excited for a second, or as excited as I've seen you let yourself get, until you noticed who it was from. I've only seen you get that excited when you get a letter from… Draco, was it? He's the one you mentioned yesterday, the boy from England?"

Harry blinked at the girl peering questioniongly at him. They'd stalled before the doors of the dining hall at Tali's words. Not another student was in sight. The impressive clock, the main feature of the foyer just outside _La Grand Pièce_ , indicated it was barely seven-thirty. Harry swallowed awkwardly. It was disconcerting, to have someone notice things about him with such surety. Harry had barely even mentioned Draco since he'd started at Beauxbatons, and those instances had been directed towards Neville rather than any of his newer peers. Tali, with her keen ears and perceptive skills, was more than just a mouth, though Harry had already known that.

Dropping his gaze to the letter in his hands, Harry shrugged awkwardly under the familiar weight of Lyssy on his shoulder. "No, it's not from Draco. My godfather, Sirius." He tilted the letter towards her, unnecesarily proving the validity of his claim with the return address on the back.

Tali hardly spared it a glance. "Did I get it wrong?"

"What?"

"That boy, in England. So he's not your boyfriend? Hmm, I was so certain, I thought I'd read that one right. How vexing…" She huffed, as though she'd lost an internal bet with herself.

Harry struggled silently for another moment. It still surprised him that so many of the Wizarding world were openly accepting of his relationship with Draco. He'd never really been able to fathom it himself, yet in his Muggle schools there had always been a carefully drawn line around homosexuality, a stigma excluding such from 'proper conduct'. It had always baffled him. Why did it matter the gender of the one you loved? And as for a physical relationship… well, Harry himself hadn't had anything so much as a loving sexual relationship – the word was not even on the same plane of consideration with what had been between himself and his uncle – but he wasn't oblivious. He knew that it was possible to have a homosexual, intimate relationship without the pain and domination. And if so, why did it matter? What other cause for dispute could there be?

Apparently, most of the Wizarding world felt the same way. He'd only heard a few snide comments at Hogwarts, and most of them actually from Muggleborns that had been frowned upon and quickly buried. It left him in a state of awkward relief and confusion. It was a little incomprehensible, to put it bluntly.

Slowly, Harry shook his head. "It's not that Draco's not my boyfriend. It's just…" He paused, mulling over the right words.

"What, you haven't admitted your feelings to one another?"

Harry cringed at the blatancy of Tali's words. She took the bull by the horns, the girl did, and charged right into the matter without sparing a thought for emotional investment. Yet her eyes bespoke only fond curiosity. "You know, nothing's ever going to happen between you if one of you doesn't say something. That's not how relationships start. I remember with my childhood friend Vivi, we were both sort of not talking to each other for a while until I eventually just came out and said 'let's be friends'. Thick as thieves ever since, we've been." She smiled brightly.

"It's not… admission isn't an issue." Harry's tongue seemed to twist in his mouth, jumbling his translation. Perhaps it was simply struggling to explain something that seemed to inexplicable. "We've been together for about five, nearly six months now."

"Oh." Tali said, frowning thoughtfully. "So what's the problem?"

"No problem. It's just that 'boyfriend' doesn't seem to really fit our relationship."

"Oh," Tali repeated, frown impressing further. "Then how would you describe it?"

Harry paused, thinking, and chewed on his lip thoughtfully. "Well, boyfriend just seems so… I don't know, inadequate? As though Draco's place as a 'boyfriend' is all there is to it." He shifted uncomfortably; the attempt at explaining was more embarrassing than he'd thought it would be. "With Draco, it just feels like _more_. He's my best friend too, but at times he almost acts like how I imagine an older brother would. Other times I'd swear he thought he was my father. He certainly acts more like a guardian than my godfather Sirius does sometimes." A small smile curled Harrys lips at the memory of Draco when Harry had first stepped outside of the safe-house they and Neville had been appointed by the Ministry for the summer holidays. His face had been a restrained yet scolding mask that had looked so reminiscent of Lucius' that Harry wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "And then other times, I'd think he swore I was a little prince to be pampered for the way he treated me." He shrugged. "I suppose that's why I see us as more, I don't know… partners, I guess. Though even that doesn't really seem adequate."

Tali's face was thoughtful, distant even. She appeared in deep contemplation of his words on a level he hadn't anticipated. Only briefly, however, before a slow, amused smile spread across her face. "A princeling?"

Harry felt his cheeks warm. "I'm just explaining how it feels."

"And I appreciate your honesty," Tali replied, her smile softening. "It sounds like you've got something pretty special the two of you. Partners… something more than simply boyfriends. I guess almost like… what, like soul mates? Hm, I like that." That same flicker of thoughtfulness resurfaced, but again only for a moment. "You really love him, yes?"

"Yes. I do." That, at least, Harry could state without a flicker of embarrassment. He'd never spoke truer words in his entire life. The words 'soul mates' rung through his mind like a resonating chime. He'd heard of such a term before but always believed it a little idealistic. That two people could be simply made for each other. But maybe, just perhaps… he couldn't think of it as anything but accurate. Perhaps soul mates weren't made but rather grown instead?

Trailing after Tali into the dining hall, Harry followed her to the far corner of the triangular-shaped room. A collection of tables, one allocated for each year, was arranged with its own supply of dishes. Similar arrangements were set up at the other two corners for the Bellefeuille and Ombrelune students of the other houses, and a single, round table at the very centre of the room reserved for teachers. As of yet only a handful of seats were filled, and only one _professeur_ in attendance.

As they seated themselves, Harry ripped open Sirius' letter and scanned the contents. He had to smile at the opening line. It had become something of a habit, it seemed, for Sirius to begin his letters with a phrase in French, the latest he'd picked up in his travels around Paris. They were riddled with grammatical errors, but the delight and self-satisfaction that radiated from the simple statements was evident. Sirius seemed to be adamantly enjoying himself in his explorations, and had acquainted himself with a number of fellow witches and wizards in the neighbourhood. He'd even signed up to a mock-quidditch tournament that was held every Friday, though it was more fun and games than truly competitive to hear tell of it. It was warming to hear that he ws adapting to his new life so well. Harry had worried that his godfather may regret following him to Paris, but if the length of the letters, filled mostly with his various exploits, was any indication, he seemed to be having the time of his life.

Harry's smile died slightly, however, at the parting words.

" _How have the nightmares been going, by the way? I know you don't want to talk about them – I can hardly blame you; myself, I don't really feel comfortable talking about them either – but I just wanted you to know that I'm here for you if you need anything, a listening ear or a word of advice. But even if you don't want to talk to me, how about seeing a counsellor or something? I hear Hogwarts has a couple they've got talking over some of the issues the students have. There's nothing to be ashamed of in talking to someone. I haven't told you this before, but when I got out of Azkaban, Remus recommended I see a specialist or something. I wound up in a support group; best decision I've made. But, it's entirely up to you…"_

And just as quickly as Sirius had brought up the topic, he switched to another – the next-door neighbours cat of all things who was, he swore, a Kneazle crossbreed – before finishing with a "talk to you later, kitten". Harry folded the letter slowly and filed it in his pocket. The words ran through his mind like an accusation.

He didn't know how Sirius had found out about his nightmares. He doubted it was Draco who had told him; the pair rarely exchanged words, even if they were no longer openly hostile to one another. But somehow Sirius had found out and, like a dog with a bone, seemed intent on worrying at the subject until it snapped.

Harry couldn't really blame him. Sirius honestly felt he was being supportive, that he was helping. And Harry understood, to a degree. Yes, to many, seeking a counsellor or simply someone to talk to about their troubles, the weights dragging down their shoulders, would be beneficial. But for Harry, he couldn't imagine it. Actually talking to someone, speaking of his past and how still, after years in many instances, his memories affected him? To a total stranger, no less?

No, Harry didn't want to see someone. Not some stranger to talk to, to offer a falsely consoling ear and sort through his problems like an interesting puzzle, diagnosing and directing as they saw fit. It might work for some, but for Harry, unless he was absolutely forced to, unless things became serious… A few nightmares, a little tiredness, _wasn't_ serious. He could deal with that.

Raising his chin, Harry met Tali's curious gaze and offered a weak smile, a short shake of his head. Nothing. Nothing was wrong. He'd deal with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for commenting everyone who took the time for last chapter! I really, really appreciate it. If you liked the chapter, or didn't like it, or have any questions or comments, please feel free to offer then. I love hearing from any reader, yes, even if it is with bad news. Thanks :D


	4. Too Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A bit of a bittersweet chapter, I'm afraid. I feel I should warn: this deals with the issue of PTSD and rape recovery. If you think that these themes might be triggering, or that my portrayal of them might be frustrating in inaccuracy... I'm sorry.
> 
> Also, Draco is kind of sweet but also slips up with a bit of a doozy. Sorry 'bout that.

For the first time in nearly a month, Draco woke with a smile on his face. He couldn't help it; he'd gone to sleep the same way and his face seemed to slip naturally into the expression without his express intentions. Which was entirely unacceptable, even if it was geunine. He had a reputation to uphold.

It was barely daybreak, a quick _Tempus_ charm indicated. And on a Saturday to boot. Draco didn't think he'd deliberately woken up so early on the weekend in his entire teenage life, but today…

_Finally. After three weeks, I finally get to see him._

Rolling out of bed, Draco dressed with swift efficiency, tugging on trousers and jumper with barely an eye for what he clothed himself in. And if he nearly bounced on his toes with eagerness, it hardly mattered; Blaise and Nott weren't awake anyway.

Writing letters wasn't enough. Draco always knew it wasn't going to be, but the reality hadn't hit him until he was living it. He missed Harry, and it may have been that he viewed the past through rose-tinted glasses, but he felt like he missed everything about him. His soft voice, faintly accented and hiding a sharp, intelligent wit behind mellowness. The constant handholds and the coolness of his fingers as Draco wrapped them in his own. Waking up to find him pressed comfortably against him in the same bed, that typical curl he always slept in that was so reminiscent of his little cat Familiar. Everything, each detail of who Harry was, and each memory was sharp yet clouded by such loss and dejection that Draco felt a sore and desperate need to simply be with his partner. It was like a physical ache.

It didn't help that he was undeniably and almost permanently horny.

The realisation was abrupt, but not unexpected. Draco acknowledged when he realised he was in love with Harry that he was attracted to him. Impossibly, it appeared to have flipped the opposite way around to convention; he'd entirely fallen head over heels without registering such physical attraction in the slightest.

It was an odd sequence for Draco; in the past, he had typically observed potential girlfriends from a distance, superficial attraction preceding a deeper relationship. Which was probably why he had only really been in a relationship with Pansy and Daphne. Though he had been friends with Pansy first, it was only when he began to recognise her other attributes, the features that made her a woman, that there had been a progression into a deeper level. Hence it hadn't worked out, Draco supposed. The same could be said for Daphne. Purely physical attraction.

Draco was attracted to women. He knew he was. A faint glimmer of bare skin, the shadow of breasts at the top of a shirt, the stretch of clothing over shapely curves that tucked into the contours of the body beneath. Though admittedly not every woman suited Draco's personal tastes, he could appreciate the beauty in each; lush and curvy to lean and slender, tall or short, blonde or brunette. They were beautiful in a way that was simply different to men. Incomparible.

Except that, as women were different to men, Harry was on a different level entirely. Draco have never considered himself capable of becoming attracted to another man in the past; the possibility hadn't even crossed his mind. Then it all changed.

Harry had a different beauty to women. There was none of the curviness, the softness, that seemed to be an innate part of womanhood. Harry was too thin, if nothing else; it gave him an aura of delicacy different even to a girl's, as though were Draco to bump him too hard he would shatter. But even so, little things sparked Draco's attention: his slender fingers upon small hands that held a natural and unassuming elegance unlike that which Draco strove to embody. The way his pale, slender neck would be revealed just briefly in the mornings when he was braiding his hair with practiced fingers. The feel of his warm body pressed against Draco when they embraced, lean muscles tightening slightly not in withdrawal but to press closer. Even little things, like the hesitant, shy flicker of long lashes behind his glasses as he glanced towards Draco, a flush just faintly touching his cheeks when he noticed himself being watched. All small, barely noticeable features that, had they been on any other boy would have left Draco unresponsive, but because it was Harry…

Draco knew he had to wait. He couldn't push Harry with the looming possibility of the other boy being emotionally incapable of progressing to further intimacy in their relationship. They embraced, true, and kissed, held each other and slept alongside one another, but nothing more than that. Ever. Draco would wait – he could wait – for as long as it took, and would rely on Harry to let him know when he was ready. If he was ready. Draco told himself it didn't matter either way, if it took to long or never happened at all.

It didn't. Really.

Unfortunately, his libido didn't think along parallel lines to his conscious mind. And there was only so many times he could seek relief alone, pleasuring himself to his thoughts, to imagining the feel of soft, small hands, of smooth, pale skin and lips parting in a sigh, before even that failed to alleviate his frustrations. Until it began to make it only more difficult.

But Draco would wait. He would.

It was only a pity that such mantras, if anything, only exacerbated his frustrations. He knew it made him irrationally angry at innapropriate times, but he was generally too disgruntled at the time to care. Blaise knew, Draco could tell, and often appeared to be fighting back a smirk after being on the tail end on on of his bouts of anger. It didn't lend itself to easing the situation.

Worse than Blaise, however, was that Daphne knew. Daphne, the girl who had all but ignored him but for jibing comments after they'd officially 'parted ways', had noticed. She'd always been almost supernaturally aware of Draco's tendencies; he was coming to hate the sly looks she gave him when he was sunken into another black mood. They were far worse than Blaise's, for she never said anything so he couldn't retaliate

Draco spent that Saturday morning in the library. Fortunately for him, Madam Pince got up at a similarly abominably early hour as he even on the weekend, and he was able to spend the hours before the carriages left for Hogsmeade studying. Or at least attempting to study. The euphoric high he'd been riding denied any real fulfillment of his intentions.

They were meeting in Hogsmeade, in the Three Broomsticks. That was what Harry had said, anyway. Draco had objected at first – why should Harry have to be the one to travel first from France and then to Hogsmeade? – but in the non-confrontationally blunt order that was so typical of Harry, Draco had simply been told that "that was what was going to happen, and if you try to meet me somewhere else then we'll just end up missing each other in transit". How could Draco object to that? Besides, he was just too excited with the prospect of actually seeing Harry to really have any objection.

As the Hogwarts bell chimed nine-o'clock in the morning, Draco was already waiting at the gates. There was only a handful of students alongside him, yet none that he was familiar enough to converse with. His friends knew he was heading into Hogsmeade to meet Harry – Blaise had complained dryly that it was about the only thing he spoke of in the days leading up to the weekend – and had respectfully declined accompaniment. Ron attempted casualness in his claim that it was too cold to venture out before ten o'clock anyway, while Hermione hadn't even bothered with an excuse. Draco saw the kindness his friends afforded him for what it was. After all, it was hardly cold enough to wear a jacket.

The trip into Hogsmeade seemed to take an abnormally long time, though Draco knew for a fact that the thestrals were moving no faster or slower than they ever did. The watch he had inherited from his father indicated as much if nothing else. It was barely a fifteen minute ride from the gates of Hogwarts to the first buildings of Hogsmeade.

The little town was just waking up when he stepped from the carriage. Largely composed of one main street of shops branching off into smaller side streets for residencies, Draco could glean in one sweep of his eyes the flip of signs in shop windows and the flicker of candles as they burst into light to illuminate the interior of the cosy vendors. The Three Broomsticks would have been open for at least an hour already – courtesy of the early morning drinkers of Smack-Brown that Madame Rosemerta had just recently begun importing. Draco couldn't get a taste for the stuff, though Ron professed it provided a wonderful kickstart to the day.

Heading towards the little inn, Draco paused briefly at Honeydukes. It was a spur of the moment decision; normally he would decline being seen in such a shop by himself. A Malfoy buying candy was simply too embarrassing to contemplate without the excuse of his friends' presence. But Draco knew that, despite his rabbit-like appetite, Harry had a surprisng sweet tooth when it came to confectionary. Draco couldn't prevent a half-grin from curling his lips as he purchased a bag of Jingle Fruits; the wide smile and dancing eyes Harry had given him as he'd witnessed the decorative candies break heartily into song for the first time was one of Draco's fondest memories. One of many.

There were perhaps six people in the Three Broomsticks when Draco entered. A trio of men were leaning heavily on a table with their Smack-Brown playing Black-Knuckle poker to the sound of moans as their cards objected to dismal play. Across the room, just as Draco stepped up to the bar, a pair of middle aged women were joined by an elderly man. Their cackles of laughter and barkng words rung throughout the room by the time he made it to his seat with a cup of tea and warm pastry.

The time difference favoured France by one hour, but Draco knew it would take Harry around three hours to travel back to Paris by carriage and at least another half an hour to pass through the International Portkey terminal and apparate from London to Hogsmeade. Still, it didn't stop him from glancing up excitedly every time the door swung open in the next half an hour. The room rapidly filled, at least two dozen more patrons both students and otherwise filing through the door before the hour was out.

It was quite a surprise, then, considering his fatalistic outlook to the wait, when just after the town bell indicated ten o'clock the door swung inwards and Harry stepped through. Draco, sipping on another cup of tea, nearly gagged in surprise, just barely managing to settle the cup back into its saucer before he lunged to his feet. He was started across the room in moments.

Harry was peering around the room curiously, scanning the mixture of townsfolk and students but with a slight, purposeful frown upon his forehead. Even as Draco wove his way across the room, he drank in the sight of his partner with hungry eyes. Harry had only a moment to notice him, his eyes widening and a smile unfurling upon his lips, before Draco caught him in an embrace tighter than he'd ever given. The crushing coil of arms that slid around his own waist followed not a moment later.

Harry was warm. _So_ warm, on a level that had nothing to do with body heat. The feel of his body against Draco was so natural, so missed, that he had to bite back a whimper at the very rightness of it as it slid into place like a perfectly carved puzzle peace. Turning his head slightly, Draco pressed his lips to the top of Harry's head and simply inhaled the scent of him. Harry's scent, mixed with a faint, soft citrus. Soap? Draco had of close his eyes, overwhelmed, simply to revel in the familiarity.

"I missed you… so much."

The words could have come from Draco's mouth without him realising but surprisingly it was Harry that spoke first. The words were muffled, a mumble against the wool of Draco's jumper so that he could barely hear it. But the sentiment resounded, even if Draco struggled to perceive the words. The faint waver in Harry's voice, so clearly flooded with emotion even when barely audible, spoke words of its own.

Pulling away barely an inch, Draco raised one hand to cup Harry's cheek. Tilting the soft, pale, chin, he stroked a thumb over cheekbones, gently parting the tendrils of fringe that had fallen across Harry's face to hook on his glasses. He couldn't seem to stop touching, feeling, looking, simply knowing that Harry was here with him. Has it truly only been three weeks?

On a spur of the moment need, in a bout of unrestrained emotion, Draco dipped his head and pressed his lips onto Harry's. They were cool – Harry was always fairly cool – but soft and sweet and altogether familiar in a way that caused Draco's mind to slow, his thoughts to seize. It was all he could do to lift his other hand to Harry's nape, locking them together more fiercely. Harry seemed to melt into him, taking and returning the motions with kiss after kiss, lips parting and breath whispering warmly. It was like –

"Awwww, how sweet!"

The words, accompanied by fond laughter and a piercing wolf whistle, were about the only thing that could have dragged Draco back to reality. Flinching slightly at the reminder of his audience, Draco pulled away from the contact and cast a glare over his shoulder. Finnigan. Of course it would be a Gryffindor who interrupted them. And of course it would be Gryffindors and Co. who peered at them eagerly as though watching a well-performed stage show. The chuckles and simpering murmurs of "they're so cute together" and "ah, I want a boyfriend tooooo" nearly brought a twitch to Draco's eye. In that moment, his newfound leniency for the house of red and gold shattered to pieces. Bloody, sodding –

"Um, maybe we should…?"

Glancing abruptly back towards Harry, just like that Draco immediately forgot his irritation for Finnigan. Harry's lips were reddened and parted, face slightly flushed, a mixture of embarrassment and arousal, and his widened eyes flickered between Draco and their onlookers in combined amusement and mortification. But he didn't pull away – thank Merlin, for Draco wouldn't have been able to stand that – but rather waited for Draco to give him some indication of appropriate response.

Taking a step backwards, Draco slipped his hand into Harry's, their familiar and ever-present hand-hold, and tugged him towards the back of the Three Broomsticks. Another wolf-whistle chased them, causing Harry to duck his head and his cheeks to flush even further, but Draco ignored them. The back room of the inn was reserved for evening meets; hard alcohol was only served in the little ten-by-ten room crammed with more chairs and tables than Draco thought entirely necessary and a slightly elevated stage for some kind of performer. He didn't like to think of what kind; Rosemerta's establishment was respectable on the surface but people did like their hobbies.

As soon as the door swung shut, the noise of the Three Broomsticks muffled to a mere murmur of background white noise. It was like sinking into water, the drone of constant chatter immediately obliterated into neglibility. Draco knew Rosmerta was generally unwilling to allow students – or anyone, for that matter – into the back room before seven o'clock at night, but the relieved slump to Harry's shoulders made it worth it facing her wrath.

Easing further into the room, tugging Harry behind him, Draco turned at the furthest wall and drew the other boy into an embrace once more. Harry wrapped his arms around him once more willingly, forcefully even, and Draco found himself slumping back onto a table in a half-seat. The hard edge of timber was uncomfortable against the back of his legs but he didn't mind. Harry was with him, right here with him, and he wouldn't move for the world.

There was something to be said for the effects of distance and time. Memories were left to stew melancholically behind, dwelling upon every opportunity missed. Upon ceasing such separation, everything seemed intensified tenfold. Draco missed Harry, missed him so much, and oddly the ache in his chest at his absence was only crushed more tightly in a merciless iron fist with their reunion. He couldn't stop touching him, just feeling him, knowing he was there with him. He stroked his hand through hair, over cheeks, pressing a soft kiss to lips and trailing fingers over jacketed arms. Anything to get closer.

Harry seemed just as eager to lock himself onto Draco. Each kiss was reciprocated with another to the lips, the jawline, a soft peck on Draco's throat that caused him to loose a soft moan. Harry's small hands were forever locked on the front of Draco's jacket, their apparent delicacy contrasting to the strength of their grasp.

Between kisses, Draco gasped out barely intelligible words. "You… you're back. I didn't think you'd… you'd be here so soon –"

"Monsieur Charlet, he took me early. I… I asked him a favour. He's really very nice, he –"

Draco smothered Harry's words with his lips. A flicker of unnecessary jealousy crackled in his chest, that same irrational feeling that arose whenever Sirius was around. He thrust it aside with barely a thought. Blurriness seemed to have shrouded on his mind, making succinct speech impossible, words unintelligible. He locked his lips with Harry's, slipping tonue between lips, sucking and drawing the breath Harry released like an elixir. It left him heady.

Unconsciously, with a will of their own, Draco's hands slid beneath Harry's jacket, locking behind his back and tugging him tightly against him. Not close enough, never close enough, but nearly. Beneath the thick garment Harry wasn't cold, but warm. His back was warmer than Draco's fingers as he slipped them beneath his shirt, revelling in the softness of skin on skin. His fingertips trailed down the length of Harry's spine.

One of them moaned around the pressure of an unbroken kiss, through the gentle tug of teeth on lips. Draco felt his breath come faster, could feel Harry's own gasp and hitch as he traced circles on his back, up to his shoulder blades and back down to his hips. Draco was lost in the sensation, revelling in the touch, the feel; it was so…

Not close enough.

Tugging Harry even more tightly towards him, in an grasp that knocked the breath out of them both, Draco spun in a tight turn and easily propped Harry up on the table he had been leaning against. Better. Much better. Closer, easier to reach, easier to press his lips against Harry's with the slight elevation. Harry muttered something, gasping for lost breath, but Draco barely heard, smothering soft lips with a kiss once more.

 _This. This is how it should be, what I've missed. By the Gods, I missed him_.

Leaning closer, Draco slid between Harry's legs, one hand running down the length of his jeans to tug slender thighs around his waist. Another unintelligible mutter from Harry, breathy and gasping, and Draco moaned into his mouth as he felt the locking of legs around him tighten ever so slightly. The tight grasp of fingers in Draco's jacket had loosened, one hand rising to cup at Draco's neck in an almost painfully tight hold. The other rose with almost startling swiftness to grasp at his hair, tugging the blonde locks. Draco was hardly aware. He was lost in the sensation of his tongue in Harry's mouth, his hands on his back, kneading into warm skin and holding them together. The pressure of his growing arousal ached in his trousers, pressing firmly into Harry's hip. His head was warm, the clouds dampening thoughts like cotton wool. So good, it felt just so good to be close… His hands trailed lower beneath Harry's shirt, holding and always pressing them together, closer and closer. Fingers slipped beneath the edge of jeans, digging into hip bones, running over the smoothness of buttocks and slightly lower to –

"…co, Draco! P-please, I…could you… please stop! I can't –"

Reality hit him like a dash of cold water to the face. Draco was wrenched from the clouds of his heady arousal. He froze, a rabbit caught by the hypnosis of a snake, and slowly, blearily, blinked himself into clarity. He stared into Harry's face, so close to his own, as he too blinked rapidly. Not in kindred arousal, however, but with sickly pale skin. His eyes were impossibly wide behind his glasses, nearly overflowing with tears, heaving pants not from passion but from fear…

Draco stumbled backwards, nearly crashing into the cluttered table and chairs behind him. Like a repressed memory suddenly making itself screamingly known, the reality of the past few frantic moments became apparent. The press of contact, of skin on skin, the whimper of unease Draco had taken as a sigh of pleasure. The tightening of thighs as Draco forced his way between then, struggling to urge him away, hands locked on his neck and tangled in hair not drawing him closer but attempting to push him away. He hadn't noticed, hadn't been aware… hadn't heard or felt or seen any of it. What had been so obvious.

Harry was shaking on his perch on the table. He was blinking rapidly in an attempt to hold back tears, shaking his head and sending loose tendrils of fringe whipping back and forth. One hand, fingers trembling faintly, was raised to his mouth, covering half his face while the other dug clutched at his collar. His shoulders shook in repressed sobs and he seemed to curl in upon himself.

Draco recoiled. Any trace of arousal he had felt was extinguished like a smothered flame. Horror gripped him and shook him like a wolf wrenching its unfortunate prey into unconsciousness. He slumped backwards, leaning heavily upon the table behind him, and slowly brought both hands up to cover his own face. He couldn't look at Harry, couldn't… he couldn't look, because…

Just this morning, this very morning, he'd sworn that he wouldn't push him. Just like he have every morning, every day, since they'd first confessed their feelings to one another. Draco cringed, bile rising in his throat. _What did I do? What have I done to him? Merlin, I'm disgusting, how could I…?_

It took a herculanean effort of will to drop his hands enough to peer across the short distance between them. His gorge rose once more, self-disgust sending a roaring cry through his ears. Harry had stopped shaking his head, had dropped his hand from his mouth to clasp around the other held to his collar, but the tears still glistened in his eyes. His lower lip trembled faintly, and he seemed to be placing an equal amount of effort that Draco invested into maintaining steady breathing. Horribly, at the neck of his jacket that slumped half off his shoulders, Draco saw a deep red impression of fingernail marks raked across his collarbone.

 _Me. I did that; it was my fault he did that to himself._ Draco struggled with the urged to drop to the floor and beg for forgiveness. He wanted to apologise, wanted to babble excuses and renounce himself for his mistake. But his throat felt painfully tight. Raw, as though he'd been shouting.

"I… I'm so, so sorry."

The worst part was that when the words finally came, it wasn't even Draco who uttered them.

* * *

 

Draco didn't know how long they remained in Rosmerta's back room, simply staring at one another. It could have been hours; they could have wasted an entire day and Draco wouldn't have known. He was simply locked in an unwinnable battle, struggling with his desire to stare imploringly at Harry and to attempt to shrink into the floor. Harry slowly regained a semblance of control, yet kept his head bowed and eyes trained fixedly on the floor. His brow was impressed in lines of worry, of self-deprecation, that Draco wanted nothing more than to smooth away. He wouldn't, though. He wouldn't touch Harry again.

Eventually, it was Rosmerta who drew them from their silence. The bustling, curly-haired woman strode into the room like a descending storm cloud of flapping blue robes. A sudden influx of chattering and laughter tagged behind her before the door swung shut behind her.

"Right, you pair, you can't be back here any longer. I've been lenient but you need to…"

Draco didn't know whether it was his own expression or that of distress and trauma that shone in Harry's eyes that caused the woman to stutter to a halt. He bowed his head under her questioning gaze, flinching slightly as, from his periphery, she turned her head between himself and Harry. He and Harry. Draco could have died from the shame, the self-loathing, and it wasn't even that the woman was witnessing it so much as that she saw it, saw what had happened to Harry and realised. And if she saw, then that meant it was painful enough, crippling enough, that Harry couldn't even hide the hurt.

Harry always hid his hurt. Always. He hated people to see. It was just another part of what made him Harry. It was heartbreaking.

"I think you need to head on back to school. The both of you." Rosmerta's voice was quiet, hushed even, but there was an edge of urgency to it that urged Draco into action where he had previously been locked in the throughs of immobility. Nodding his head in a jerking spasm, Draco pushed himself off the table and reached out to Harry, offered his hand –

And stopped short. Harry didn't flinch away from him, but neither did he reach forward to take it.

Only faintly aware of Rosmerta as witness, Draco swallowed around the rawness of his throat and struggled for words. "Harry? We should… can you… do you think...?"

His words were a garbled mess, but Harry seemed to understand them well enough. He nodded and with almost cringing slowness eased himself from the table. Draco had to fight not to offer him a hand once more; it would likely only make the situation worse. Rosemerta led them from the room. Her pointed stare was piercingly sharp.

The chatter of conversation felt hollow on Draco's ears, and he was horribly aware of the lack of Harry's hand in his own. He doubted he was the only one, if the slight muting of voices as they passed was anything to go by. He didn't meet anyones eyes; his shame was too strong to lift his gaze from the floor. Not public shame, no. This was a different kind, one Draco had very rarely experienced and never with such intensity.

He wasn't quite sure how they made it back to the school. Hell, Draco wasn't even certain until he climbed into the carriage that Harry was even following him. They were silent in their progress, silent when they climbed from the carriage once more at the gates of Hogwarts. They didn't even discuss where they were going. Somewhere in the back of Draco's consciousness, he recalled that Harry had told him he'd asked McGonagall's permission to stay in Featherwood's old rooms if he chanced a visit, rather than the guest rooms that were provided for the occasional family visits. It was a testament to how fond the Headmistress was of Harry that she agreed almost instantly. He didn't even consider that, however. Subconsciously his feet just naturally trekked along the familiar path to Harry's old rooms, eased the blackwood door open and slipped into the darkness beyond. The door clicked behind them both with an ominous _snick_.

They stood across from one another in the middle of the living room. Neither raised their eyes from the thick carpet underfoot, staring as though they were both expert rugmakers fixated by a masterpiece. Draco busied himself with shrugging off his jacket and folding it with unnecessary precsion before placing it on the sofa. He tried not to let it pain him that the low-lying coffee table stood between them, yet if he was honest with himself he could hardly blame Harry. What he'd done was unforgiveable.

 _I pushed myself on him, when all this time I've sworn I wouldn't. I'm no better than Defaux_. The thought sent a swirl of nausea flooding into Draco's mouth; this one was harder to dispel. He managed though, and with a similarly physical strain he forced himself to speak.

"Harry, I am… I am so sorry. I can't…" Draco bit his lip, struggling with the upwelling of emotion that seized his chest. "I can't possibly ask for your forgiveness, not after I what I've done, but I swear on my life that I will never, ever let it happen again." He blinked rapidly to clear his eyes of their sudden blurriness, chin rising with a struggle to stare at Harry in search of a response. Any response.

Harry was shaking his head resolutely. Quick jerks of his head, eyes still downcast, forehead still wrinkled. Draco felt the seizng in his chest intensify painfully until Harry spoke. "No, Draco, it's not your fault. I should be the one apologising." He bit his lip as it began to quiver once more. "I'm so sorry that I put you through that, it was just so sudden and… I was stupid, it was stupid. I'm sorry. I couldn't –"

Before Draco realised what he was doing, he scooted around the table and, tilting his head slightly, placed himself directly in Harry's line of sight. Slowly, hesitantly, and screaming at himself to _not touch!,_ he placed his hands on each of Harry's shoulders. It felt like he could breathe again when Harry didn't flinch from him. He met his eyes through the thin reflection on Harry's glasses.

"No, Harry, never that. You should never have to apologise for something like this." Draco drew in a ragged breath, fighting against the urge to descend into blubbers of apology. "I just missed you so much, and then you were there, and it was all so… so everything. Overwhelming. I… I couldn't think straight." He squeezed his eyes closed, and fought against the returning upwelling of emotion. "Please don't apologise."

"But it's my fault."

"No, it's not –"

"Yes, Draco, it is."

Opening his eyes, Draco peered into Harry's downcast face. Just like that, so suddenly, in that disconcerting resolution he had, Draco watched as his partner visibly thrust aside the hurt, the pain, the memories, and shrugged on a coat of determination. His resilience was awe-inspiring.

"I'm not normal. This isn't normal –"

'Of course, it's not normal. What happened to you –"

"Please, Draco, let me speak." Harry's words were hushed, barely a whisper, but Draco clamped his jaw shut in an instant. He'd be just about prepared to do anything in that moment should Harry suggest it. More so than usual, even.

Harry drew a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, his face, though pale, had shed the last of the terror that had been so plainly visible since the Three Broomsticks. Only a glimmer of it remained in his eyes. "What we have isn't normal. We should be able to… to have a physical relationship just like anyone else. I'm holding us back, and I'm so sorry. It's entirely my fault. Everything's my- " His voice broke, faltering on the last word, but his face remained resolute.

Draco felt his jaw tighten with a squeak. He shook his head. "Of course it's not normal. And no, we can't have a physical relationship. Of course we can't. But don't you ever, for a minute, think it's your fault." He held up his hand as Harry made to talk, and the other boy quelled obediently. "Harry, why do you feel such responsibility for what Defaux did to you?"

"Why?" Harry lifted his chin for the first time since they'd entered the room. He frowned. "You know why."

"What, because you supposedly 'chose' to live with him, not knowing him to be the sick, twisted monster he is?"

"Well, w-when you say it like that…" Harry ducked his chin to avoid the narrowing of Draco's eyes. "But not just that. It's my memories that's the problem. They're what's getting in the way."

"So you're to blame for that too?"

"Who else?"

Draco sighed heavily. Harry seemed so adamant, so unrelenting, in his belief that it was like attempting to strike down a wooden wall with a beaters bat. He was just… it was just so like him in his steadfast belief in _everything_. With a gentle tug, Draco pulled Harry towards the sofa. They sank down into it with a squeak of springs. "You have a really serious guilt complex, did you know that?"

Harry stared at him blankly for a moment before giving him a weak smile. It held absolutely no joy and shrugged feebly. "Doesn't make it any less warranted."

Running a hand through his hair, Draco struggled with his words momentarily. "Harry, would you blame my mother for being cooped up in a hosptial bed for months after what happened to her?

Harry frowned. "What? No, of course not."

"And what about me? When I get really upset, really angry, about what happened to my f-father?"

"That's an entirely different thing."

"No. No, it's not. If anything, my own reasons are less justified than yours." With one hand, Draco gently stroked his thumb across Harry's cheek. It was cold, reflective of their paleness, and slightly damp as though glossed with the sheen of unfallen tears. "But that's beside the point. The point is that no, we don't have a normal relationship. Because ours is so much deeper than anything anyone could possibly imagine."

"And I'm holding us back from being even more than that." Harry spoke lowly, the shame wavering in his voice. Even in the darkness of the room, Draco could see his eyes dull in that ever-present guilt.

"Do you think that's all I'm hanging out for? To have sex with you?"

It was the first time they'd actually spoken about it so bluntly, but for whatever reason – the gravity of what they'd experienced, maybe – neither shied away from the topic. Harry stared at him sadly for a moment, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. "I'd understand if you –"

"Because I'm not. I mean," Draco hissed through his teeth in frustration. "Don't think I don't want to. Because I do. Of course I do. I think your beautiful, Harry, the most beautiful person I've ever met, and whenever I think about you I can't help but fantasise about it. What would you expect, what could anyone expect, but to feel that way about the person they love?

"But you can't. Not yet, and maybe not ever. And I swear, Harry, that doesn't change how I feel at all." Draco paused, fixing Harry with a stare and trying to convey all of his feelings through his eyes, through his body, if nothing else. "I mean it. I'd love you anyway, even if such an eventuality never came to pass. I'd follow you like a stupid little puppy to the ends of the world without you dangling the bone of the possibility of sex. I swear to Merlin I would."

Harry's eyes were wide. They'd widened, incredulous, to the degree that they seemed to fill his whole face. Draco sighed heavily once more and felt his shoulders slump. He tried not to feel down-hearted about it, but it hurt to think that Harry believed him so driven by lust that he would overlook his love for him. Draco had thought his feelings were obvious. He'd never been more obvious with his feelings. Ever.

"I never thought… I mean, I just always considered that to be, you know, what you were supposed to…" Harry stuttered, struggling to wrap his tongue around his words. "I just… whenever my u-uncle… he was always… It was always just about sex. When he brought women home, sometimes, when I was younger, it was always just for the sex."

"So you just thought I was the same?: It was a struggle for Draco to keep his voice mellow.

Shaking his head, Harry raised a hand and cupped it around Draco's fingers, pressing them gently into his own cheek. "Of course not. I don't think you're like that, Draco." He took a deep breath, a sigh that seemed to flush all of the energy out of him. With a sudden slump, he fell forward and dropped his forehead into Draco's shoulder. An arm slipped around Draco's waist, holding tightly like a lost child clinging to the sanctuary that was their mother. "It's just that… it always seemd the most… it seemed pretty important. I've never really been in a… a relationship. The only thing I have had was just all about… the physical.'

Naturally, the shame descended once more at Harry's words. Draco scolded himself for the pettiness of his disgruntlement. All about the sex. Of course, that was all Harry had ever had before. Why wouldn't he think that Draco was driven by similar desires? Even with what they had, that which was so different from the possessive, abusive relationship Harry had been trapped in with Defaux, it was natural to think as much.

His thoughts were cut off when Harry continued. "Thank you, Draco. For being so patient with me."

Draco snorted at the sudden randomness of the statement. "I don't think patience has much to do with it. Patience insinuates conscious effort. There's not even a question on the table, Harry. If I had to forego sex to be your lover – if… I guess if that actually makes sense…" He paused, frowned for a moment before shaking his head and continuing resolutely. "Then I'd do it in a heartbeat." He felt a smirk quirk his lips; now there were words he never thought he'd utter.

Harry sighed heavily into his shoulder. He uttered a faint murmur, muffled against Draco's coat.

"What was that."

"…said I wouldn't blame you, if you wanted to… with someone else…"

It took a while to comprehend what Harry meant. When he did, an upwelling of anger painted Draco's vision red. How could he think that? After what Draco had just said, how could Harry think that he would pursue someone else? He had to bite his lip until the skin nearly split, suppressing a shudder that would fuel a bark of reprimand to the boy curled tightly into his chest. With a struggle, Draco moderated his tone enough to speak. "Please never suggest something like that again. Harry, I don't want anyone if it's not you."

The answering murmur, followed by the faintly wet warmth as silent tears dribbled past Draco's jacket and into his cotton shirt, swept aside the anger like a broom through dust. With barely a shift in position, Draco tugged Harry into a soft, gentle embrace. The two lost themselves in the silence of the dark room, rocking gently and simply absorbing one another's presence. The sheer emotion that roiled around them actually made pinpricks of blurriness spark in Draco's own eyes. The entire situation, it was… it was so messed up.

Finally, so long after Harry had shed his final tear that Draco's shirt was nearly dry, he spoke once more. "I think I should see someone."

Draco blinked out of his semi-daze. "Hmm?"

"A counsellor or someone. A therapist. Sirius has been suggesting, though he suggests it more for what happened at school last year." A faint tremble quivered through Harry's shoulders, but he otherwise gave no indication that the mention of the Battle fazed him.

"Are you having a bad time of it with that too?"

Harry shrugged. "Not… really."

"It's not a bad thing, you know. I've been seeing someone for the last couple of weeks."

Leaning back slightly, Harry looked up into Draco's eyes. Surprise was writ within them like glowing candles. "You? You're seeing a counsellor?" He paused, frowning curiously. "You didn't tell me."

Draco shifted uncomfortably. There's nothing wrong with it, stop being such an idiot. 'Like I said, it's not a big thing. The ministry sent out some designated officials to help some of the students. They've actually been quite good."

Harry blinked at him blankly for several moments before a small smile settled on his lips. "I'm glad."

Draco cleared his throat. "Well, what I mean is, I think it might be able to help with some of the trouble's you're having. If that's what you want. About the Battle of Hogwarts and… other things."

Nodding slowly, Harry licked his lips. He seemed to struggle with what he wanted to say for a moment. "Yes, other things. I said to myself that if my memories, if _dealing_ with my past, gets in the way of what I really want, then I would do as Sirius suggested." He glanced upwards at Draco once more. "I'd say they're getting in the way."

"Oh?"

"Draco, don't think you're the only one who wants to move our relationship in a different direction. I do. I really do. I just seem to be rather pulling it backwards rather than leading it forwards."

Raising an eyebrow, Draco couldn't help a half-smile curling his lips. "Is that right?"

'Make a snide comment, Draco Malfoy, and I'll cuff your ear so hard you'll be hearing echoes for a week."

"Oh, like you would, little mister pacifist."

"I would. I'm warning you."

Draco chuckled softly, and even Harry allowed himself to allow a wavering smile to grow upon his lips. The memory of that morning still hung ominously nearby, but for now, they had moved past it. They'd worked through it, and would continue to work through it. Whenever the needed to.

Neither were inclined to meet up with the rest of their friends that afternoon. And whether if was by chance or respectful distancing, none of their friends attempted to breach their time together either. Draco and Harry spent the rest of the day curled against one another, talking gently as much as they lazed silently, and eventually fell into bed beside one another with fingers tangled as though glued together. It was the best nights sleep Draco had spent since returning to Hogwarts

The next morning, when they came down to the Great Hall, there was a shriek of delight the moment they stepped through the door. Draco wasn't the only one surprised when his eyes drew towards Luna Lovegood as the individual responsible for emitting such a sound. He hadn't even known the girl capable of making noises above a dreamy murmur.

Regardless, the blonde Ravenclaw nearly flew across the room towards them and skidded to a halt inches before Harry. For his part, Harry didn't appear surprised at all by the display. Draco had to wonder exactly what went on in the Care of Magical Creatures classes if he didn't bat an eyelid at Luna's strange response. At least she didn't try to hug him; odd though she was, at least she seemed aware of some very important boundaries.

"It's so wonderful to see you, Harry," she said. And there was her dreamy voice, affixed once more as though she had never shed it. It was even more disconcerting after her recent impersonation of a harpy.

"You too, Luna. How are you enjoying the chimaera?"

"Oh, absolutely lovely. Hagrid managed to get us a specialist incursiin with a baby last Friday. It was such a sweet little creature. Barely stood five feet tall."

Draco smothered a snort and had to actively fight to refrain from rolling his eyes. Small at five feet tall? He didn't want to know what Luna deemed 'large'.

By that point, Blaise, Hermione and Ron had joined them. Hermione beamed adoringly and wrapped Harry in a slow, gentle hug, while Ron settled for an attempt at a manly handshake from his levitating chair. Blaise slapped the redhead's hand away moments later with a snort of exasperation to engulf Harry in a tight embrace that put Hermione's to shame.

"I missed you, my little friend! So sorry I couldn't see you off when you left."

"Not at all, Blaise. Did you enjoy Italy? I don't remember you ever saying where you were going."

Blaise smiled brightly; Draco knew of his love for his native country. Blaise always spoke of it with such pride. " _Roma!_ _Città della mia nascita_." He gesticulated in the air with a flourish. Harry gave a slowly widening smile. "Really? You're from Rome? _Ah, che bello! Mi piacerebbe visitare un giorno..."_

Draco had to raise a hand to cover his smirk at that. More, really, at the expressions of stunned surprise blossoming on Blaise, Hermione and Ron's faces. Not Luna's, funnily enough, but Draco wouldn't have been surprised if she simply hadn't heard. She appeared to be staring at something rather fascinating on the distant wall of the Hall.

"Y-you speak Italian?" Blaise spluttered, jaw falling open.

Harry, his smile faltering slightly, shrugged one shoulder. "A little bit, yeah."

"You can…"

"Harry has something of a gift for languages," Draco drawled, as though it were hardly worth commenting on. "What was it, Harry? English, French, Spanish and a bit of Italian. And I'm missing one…"

"A very little bit of German, too, though I'm not very good at it. I haven't spent much time learning –"

"That's fascinating!" Hermione burst in interruption. She looked as though she had just unearthed a treasure trove. Or, probably more appropriately, a hidden library of wonders. She'd risen onto the balls of her feet and leant towards Harry with eyes gleaming. "I never knew, though I suppose it's natural for you to be able to pick up languages fairly easily, what with being bilingual at such a young age. And the Romantic languages are relatively similar –"

"Hermione, he's not a bloody encyclopedia," Ron sighed, exasperated. "Give him some credit where credit is due."

Hermione started, surprised, and pulled back slightly. "Oh. Oh, no," She flapped her hands beseechingly at Harry. "I'm not overlooking your talent or anything –"

"Don't worry about it, Hermione, really, it's hardly a –"

"I only meant to comment on the theoretical learning experience; really, it's only natural to suppose –"

"Hermione, my dear, it is far too early for such in-depth consideration of measures of intelligence." Blaise raised a hand to his head, brow crinkling as though physically pained by her rambling. "Please, save it for tomorrow when you're tutoring me in Transfiguration."

Draco and Harry shared a smile as they followed their friends to the Slytherin table. Hermione was still professing her 'innocence' of monologuing while Blaise and Ron good-naturedly bemoaned her excuses. They settled down for a quick breakfast, conversing in jovial tones throughout. It was funny, Draco considered, how the addition of one more person, the visit of a single friend, could smother the natural inclination of them all to speak in hushed tones as was want to be done in the Great Hall.

The rest of the day passed easily in the comfort of one anothers company. Outside, mostly, soaking in the sun in preparation for the approaching winter. Luna joined them for most of the day – though Draco would frequently glance up to find her disappeared, only to turn to his side half an hour later to have her reappeared again – and at one point Theodore Nott. Even Mandy Brocklehurst joined them briefly; a friend of sorts of Harry's from Care of Magical Creatures, she drilled him impersonally on his new school, Hermione's assistance only fuelling the fire of questions. Harry took it all in stride, however, indulging their dual thirst for knowledge.

By mid afternoon, their little group had drifted to the Black Lake. Luna commented idly on whether they may be able to draw Squirt's attention – the name of the young hydra still caused Blaise and Ron to descend into snickers – and put on a rather amusing show for them all by conducting what appeared to be an interpretive dance of sorts in the shallows to 'attract the hydra's attention'. Hermione covered her face in embarrassment while the other two boys encouraged her with glowing praise that she didn't seem to hear. Harry watched her with an indulgent smile on his face, and Draco couldn't find it in himself to even feel pity for the blonde-haired girl. She was strange, but anything that could make Harry smile like that held a place of fondness in Draco's heart.

As the sun began to die down, Draco found himself sprawled lazily on the grass with Harry curled sleepily into his side. Ron had levered himself from his chair and was propped up on the ground next to Hermione, looking intensely bored with something she was attempting to explain to him, while Blaise appeared thoroughly befuddled by the speckled collection of leaves Luna was attempting to engross him in. Draco's eyes drew towards the horizon, watching regretfully as the sun sank lower. Harry would have to leave by five o'clock that evening to make the portkey in time. It was nearly four already.

"Oi, Harry." Ron's voice broke the mellow buzz of quiet conversation. Draco felt Harry twist into sitting but didn't raise his own head.

"Hmm?"

"You've gotta tell me, please."

"What?"

"Music. The music. Neville won't spill and tell me what he's playing."

Hermione sighed loudly. Knowing her, Draco suspected it was more that she had been interrupted than that she truly reprimanded Ron's questioning. Scolding as she may be at his attempts to tease Neville, she couldn't quite hide her own curiostiy as to his instrumental specialisation. Hence the silence, Draco assumed.

"Um… did he not want to tell you?" Harry asked.

"He won't tell me what the instrument is." As Draco propped himself up on his elbows, he saw familiardisgruntlement settle on Ron's face.

Harry pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Sorry, Ron, I think you're probably going to have to wait until he wants to tell you about this one."

"What? Come on, Harry, you've got to give me some fodder for the flames. Bloody git didn't even bother to visit us today when he could have. That deserves some sort of punishment."

"It wasn't his fault entirely." From his tone, Harry seemed to be suppressing a smile. "He promised Aime he'd help with the _Botanique_ on Thursday but skipped the study session to play quidditch instead. Aime said as payback Neville had to help on the weekend."

"Serves him right," Hermione muttered, but there was only affection in her tone.

"Aime? Who's Aime?" Ron frowned, his face darkening. "What's she to Neville? I swear, if he's cheating on Ginny…"

Harry tilted his head, frowning with what Draco perceived as false consideration. "No, I'm fairly certain Neville's not gay."

"What?" Ron blinked, face blanking to the sound of Blaise's sniggers.

"Aime's a boy."

Even Hermione's shoulders trembled in her amusement as they all descended into fits of giggles. Ron had the grace to look embarrassed. "Shut it, you lot." There was no heat to his words, however, and he didn't seem particularly put off. "Still, you have to tell me. Is Nev really so bad at music that he doesn't want us to know?"

"Not at all," Harry replied, shaking his head firmly. "Neville's far better at playing than I am."

"Oh, what do you play, Harry? I never got around to asking you in our letters." Hermione leant forward curiously in her seat, elbowing Ron as he made to reattempt his own questioning.

"Harry plays piano," Luna chimed in. "And he's actually quite good at it. He's just being humble."

"How would you know?" Blaise rolled his eyes at the Ravenclaw girl. "You haven't even heard him play."

"No, I haven't, but I still know. Us musicians, we have a sense for this sort of thing." Luna nodded her head solemnly, ignoring Blaise's snort and mumbled "you, a musician?"

Draco edged forwards behind Harry, wrapping an arm around his waist and dropping his chin to his shoulder from behind. "I haven't heard him either, though I wouldn't be surprised if Luna was right on this one. You're pretty much good at anything you try." He met Harry's sidelong grin and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"I think you have far too much confidence in my abilities, Draco." That indulgent smile made it only too easy for Draco to ignore Blaise's demonstration of dry heaving. He was simply happy to see Harry in relative ease after what had happened the day before. Blaise could be as 'disgusted' as he wished.

Unfortunately, five o'clock came all too soon. Their friends silently agreed to give Draco and Harry a few more moments of privacy, waving in farewell as they left them at the gates leading from the Hogwarts grounds. Draco could still hear the distant shouts of Blaise cursing Ron for ramming the back of his ankles minutes after they left. He barely spared it half a thought, however.

They stood silently, foreheads resting gently upon one anothers. It was relaxing, comforting, being so simply and easily close. It cradled the growing ache in Draco's chest at the prospect of Harry leaving. He knew it was only for a week this time – he did know this – but it hardly seemed to matter to the dancing elves making mince meat of his guts, stringing them into painful ropes of sadness.

"I'll see you next weekend, Draco."

Draco nodded his head slightly. "You will. I'm coming to see you this time."

"I'll meet you at the terminal?"

"Of course. As early as I can get away from school."

"Don't push yourself. I can wait if I have to."

Sighing heavily, Draco wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulders. "You might be able to but I can't." He swallowed the tickle in his throat. "Make sure you write this week. Even though I'll be seeing you on Saturday."

"Of course. First thing I'll do when I get back to the dormitories."

"It better be."

They shared a smile. It was a smile loaded with meaning, a little happy, a little sorrowful, and swimming in love.

"I love you. Always will."

"I love you too. Always." After the events of the weekend, those words so often exchanged seemed even more truthful.

After a brief kiss, soft and gentle, Harry cracked into disappearance. The road felt terribly bare to Draco, left by himself. Alone. Yet he waited in the silence of encroaching nightfall until the sun fully disappeared beneath the horizon before turning and making his lonely way back to the school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Demanding? Yes, I am. But please review and let me know what you think! Please please please! Thanks to everyone who has commented so far; I really appreciate it xx


	5. Seeking Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you, to the wonderful bafflinghaze, Psiidmon and shadow_faye. Thanks so much you guys for commenting; you're such awesome support and I really love hearing from you. Enjoy some fluff!

"Dammit, Aime, I told you not to press the top of the stem! If you're going to try and maneuver it at all, you've got to grip it just near the roots!"

Neville's voice spluttered from across the table, causing everyone in their little group of six to glance towards him. Harry similarly raised his gaze from his own Egg-Milk sapling, from the small scalpel scraping over the leaves to collect the faintest layer of slime exuded through microscopic pores. He had to drop his chin nearly immediately a moment later to hide the smile spreading across his lips.

Neville was a mess of yellow-white gunk, the stringy fluid dripping from his face in a slow ooze and onto the table and pot of the pale sapling he hung above. The smell of rotten eggs wafted from his direction with startling speed and intensity. Already Melody and Madalane had shuffled their equipment further up the bench in an attempt to escape the pervasive stench.

Aime at Neville's side was bent nearly double clutching his belly, shaking in cackles of laughter. The withering glare Neville bestowed upon him only seemed to make the curly-haired brunette laugh harder.

"Y-you… you're face! Oh, Neville, you're going to stink for a solid week at best!"

Fumbling around blindly on the bench, Neville snatched up a dirt-rag and mopped at his cheeks. His glare was broken by violent scrubs that only seemed to smear the milky yellow substance for which the plant was named even more rather than cleaning it. Grumbles were muffled by his motions but the sentiment was loud enough that Aime was sent into a renewed bout of laughter.

Taking pity upon his friend, Harry abandoned his own sapling momentarily and skirted around the table to his friend's side. "Here, Neville, put it down for a second."

Neville, dropping the rag, gave Harry a gratuitous glance before quickly falling back to glaring at Aime. Harry swept his hand over his face, not quite touching, and in moments the sticky, gelatinous substance was magically pooled into a waiting collection cup.

"Thanks, Harry." Neville smiled. Harry shrugged, nodding in acceptance. He left Neville to his scolding of Aime, falling back to Tali's side and his attention to their sapling.

"Ah, great! Look at that, nearly a whole cup of it." Aime grinned triumphantly at the collection of slowly roiling egg-milk, undulating as though with a mind of its own. "No more tedious scraping on the leaves. See, Neville? Why didn't we just do that at the beginning of class?"

Neville scooped the cup of gunk from Aime's grabbing hands, holding it aloft. "Because, you idiot, the person that gets sprayed by it smells like rotten egg for over a week! And someone with _always_ get sprayed by it."

"We all have to make sacrifices, Neville."

"Yeah, well maybe it could be you next time. That's it, this is my cup, I'm not even going to include your name on it when I hand it in. You'll have to harvest your own all by yourself now."

Harry chortled quietly at his friend's ranting, following by the pleading whine of Aime as he begged Neville to reconsider. It was a terribly boring lesson, but necessary all the same. They each had to collect at least half a cup of the substance from the saplings they had grown and nurtured from a shiny white seed. Not only was it an assignment for _Botanique_ but the secretion was to be used as a supply for their next potions assessment; egg-milk was a primary component of Repellent Potions because of their pesticide properties. The _professeurs_ of Potions and _Botanique_ had collaborated for this particular task for years.

Despite their arguing, Harry found it heartwarming to hear Neville so adamantly argue with his friend. They'd barely known each other for a month and a half and already were comfortable enough to whack one another over the head when irate. Harry was relieved Neville had made such a fast friend; he remembered the other boy's initial nervousness, his worry over his inability to communicate and that not only would it leave him behind in classes but would ostracise him further from his classmates.

He hardly needed to have worried. Neville had picked up French relatively quickly, submersion and necessity bridging that which had previously held him back, and now had a fairly solid group of friends around him. Melody and Madalane tagged along with them just about everywhere, and Christophe and Eloise were never far behind, though the tall, stern girl insisted she did not "follow anyone anywhere". Aime was probably the closest of Neville's new friends, however; Harry thought it likely a result of his similarity to Ron, though it was mostly his constant good humour and joking attitude that bore resemblance. In physicality they were about as different as two boys could be. Aime was short and slight, with at least an inch or two of his already diminutive height attributed solely to the tall fuzz of hair atop his head, while Ron towered over even Neville, who was by no means short himself.

Glancing up from his sapling at the sound of Aime's falsely wounded tone – Neville had smacked his hands away from the cup of egg-milk rather viciously - Harry met Tali's eyes. She was fighting back a grin of her own, head bowed over her own collection cup. It was a fairly regular occurrence for Aime to attempt to skive off work and steal the scraps of notes from anyone who was foolish enough to offer them. For in contrast to Ron's academic laziness, which was generally a fasçade to hide his a natural intelligence, Aime simply did not care for studies. He wasn't stupid by any stretch, but his skills lay in a different area entirely. Harry doubted there was an instrument he couldn't play, and his natural flamboyance lended itself to Drama. Giving him his due, Aime had been more than a helping hand to Neville in his introduction to _Musique et Drame_. Neville shamelessly confessed that he wouldn't be half as proficient with the saxophone as he was without Aime's help.

When the distant bell chimed for the end of class for the day, there was an all-round sigh of relief from the entire class. _Professeur_ Mueque didn't seem in the least bit offended at their unanimous eagerness to depart his class, simply offering a reminder in his aged, wavering voice to ensure all collection cups were labelled and saplings replaced in their numbered position on the shelves in the back room. Neville had caved grudgingly and eventually allowed Aime to mooch off his work once more. The animated voice of the curly-haired youth rung across the grounds as he led their class towards the nearest elevating system – the _vent tuyaux_ , as the students called them. Melody and Madalane were shaking in fits of giggles as they flanked the dramatic boy, and even Neville was unable to hide his smile.

Harry walked beside Tali as they approached the base of the Eastern Tower. Such was usually their placement at the tail end of the group; Harry had to wonder at Tali's hanging back from the chattering centre that was Aime with her own love for talking, but she seemed perfectly content to spend most of her time with Harry. They'd grown closer the two of them over the past weeks. Though she still seemed intent on talking Harry's ear off with her quite voice that flew at the speed of a buzzing bee, Harry found he very much enjoyed her company. They shared much in common, surprisingly, aside from the obvious sharing of school houses. Most prominently was a love of magical creatures; Tali wanted nothing more than to study native marine and aquatic species in the Iberian Peninsula one day. She professed an absolute captivation with freshwater naiads and their jelly-turtle symbionts.

They walked in relative silence for a moment after Tali seemed to have exhausted her supply of speculations for exactly which properties of egg-milk they would be extricating from the pus-like solution they'd each collected. Tali was like that; she questioned absolutely everything yet usually reached her own conclusions based on a well of admirable deductive powers. She would have made a fabulous lawyer in the Muggle world, or even a government official of a Wizarding ministry had such a path interested her. As it happened, it didn't.

Harry kept his silence, content to simply listen to her unless she expressly requested contribution. It was an unspoken agreement in there relationship; Tali talked and was alleviated of the responsibility of being the listener by Harry assuming that role. It suited them both, running like clockwork. Besides, Harry wasn't feeling much in the mood for talking that afternoon anyway. Since class had finished, the faint uneasiness that had ridden with him the entire day manifested as mounting nervousness. His stomach clenched with the attack of persistent butterflies that apparently reveled in twisting his intestines into a muddled knot.

When they reached the fork in the road – one leading down in the direction of the student town, _Riviere Ville_ , and the other up towards the Eastern Tower – Harry paused in step. Tali took only a moment to remember.

"Oh, you're going into town this afternoon, aren't you?"

Harry nodded shortly, shifting his gaze towards the academy that towered overhead. Aime had nearly disappeared up the path, his loud voice echoing over the sparsely-treed grounds, and Melody and Madalene had raced ahead of him, vanishing from view entirely. The rest of the small class trailed in a broken line behind them. Neville cast a final glance over his shoulder and met his eyes. He paused in step, offering a single, knowing nod that was followed by a raised hand in farewell. Harry appreciated the lack of hype the other boy caused. It would only make him more nervous.

"Did you want me to come with you?"

Glancing towards Tali, Harry blinked in surprise. Her voice was abnormally serious, golden eyes narrowed slightly in faint worry that she made an effort to hide. Harry had to wonder at that. He hadn't told his friend exactly why he was visiting the town, but he had the eerie sense that she knew anyway. Tali picked up on little things, fitting them together like pieces of a puzzle to build a picture of her surroundings, of those she corresponded, with almost frustrating skill. She'd frequently drop certain comments that would leave Harry astounded with her knowledge of that which he had assumed would be keep hidden. The Battle of Hogwarts was one such incident. The problems arising from such, the memories of his past that were triggered by such, was another.

At her suggestion, however, Harry couldn't feel even an inkling of irritation at her perceptiveness. Concern was too plainly writ across her face. He struggled to offer her a reassuring smile – which obviously failed, given the deepening of her frown – and shook his head. "It's alright. I'm fine. Thanks anyway, Tali. I shouldn't be out too late anyway. Back before dark."

Tali pursed her lips. "I didn't mean it like that. I just thought you might like someone to come with you."

To anyone else except Draco, Harry would likely have laughed off the suggestion, offered his gratitude again and reassured them that he was perfectly fine going by himself. He doubted that Tali would appreciate such platitudes, however. Swallowing, he shook his head. "No, it's alright. I think I'd probably prefer just to go by myself anyway."

Rather than being affronted or offended by his words, Tali's face cleared. A thin smile pressed upon her lips. "Well, if you're sure. Just make sure you come and talk to me before dinner, alright? Try and lock yourself away in the library or something again and I'll hunt you down, I swear."

Harry smiled more easily at the severity of her tone. He had no doubt it was sincere. " Of that I'm sure. But of course, I wouldn't dream of it." Turning towards the path to town, he paused once more. "Oh, Tali?"

"Hmm?"

"Would you mind seeing if Lyssy's alright?"

"Of course? Where would I find her? Is something wrong?"

Harry shook his head, smiling ruefully. "No, there shouldn't be. This time of the afternoon she's usually in the owlery staring at birds, but she's recently developed a fascination with the Clyntine's giant koi."

Tali smirked, shaking her head. "Ah, I see the problem. Had some accidents, has she?"

"Yeah, something like that. I've had to scoop her out of the pond twice already."

Laughing quietly, Tali turned and begun to head up towards the Academy. "Sure thing, 'Arry. I'll rescue your little damsel from distress." She waved a hand over her shoulder, offering a fond smile. "Thanks for telling me."

Harry watched his friend turned, lengthened her stride and disappeared up the path. It was so typical of Tali, to thank him for asking her for help. She was odd like that; despite her deductive capabilities, she seemed so grateful whenever Harry offered her personal information directly. Even more so when he asked for help, as though she was genuinely warmed that he took her into his confidence.

 _Maybe she just is,_ he pondered. _It's nice, having people rely on you, even if it's for something they're struggling with_. It was a selfish thought, Harry supposed, but no less true for it. His mind drifted naturally to Draco, or more specifically to the events of last year, to that which had befallen his partner's parents. It still left him with a satisfied feeling to know that what little support he had offered Draco was appreciated.

The walk down towards _Rivierie Ville_ was not far, thirty minutes if one idled and wandered slowly. Harry had been required to seek express permission from the Headmistress to leave school grounds mid-week, but when she'd been informed of the reason she had agreed instantly. Besides, there was hardly anything to be worried about travelling the short distance to the town, even for a student alone. The almost laughably named 'city' was barely as large as Hogsmeade, and history told it that it had sprung into existence almost solely on the basis of the nearby academy's presence. Hence the aptness of the name 'student town'. It was little more than a collection of boutique-like stores and cottage residences that compiled made a population of something nearing one hundred. Small, it was dwarfed even by the modest Beauxbatons population.

Beauxbatons' grounds was significantly smaller than those of Hogwarts. The surrounding mountains and the natural topography meant that there was little overall flatness that could be classified as 'grounds', and most of that was covered by the surrounding forest. Only at the base of every tower was anything that even approached the resemblance of 'open landscape', and generally barely more than an acre before it became encroached upon by the treeline. The greenhouses lay on the edge of one such acre, nestled in the relative shade of trees and receiving just enough light to fuel the growth of its leafy inhabitants. The pegasus loading station lay just down the path from Mueque's houses.

Harry passed through the pegasus grounds to the calls of greeting from familiar faces. Most _Soin de Créatures Magiques_ students were on speaking terms with the groomsmen and carriage drivers; in fact, most spent a great deal of time pitching in a voluntary hand to simply work with the magnificent golden pegasus native to the Pyrenees. Harry waved a hand at Jean as he passed by, stopping briefly to stroke the snout of a mare that trotted eagerly to his side in hopes of a treat. The horse was at least twice his height, but such enormity no longer intimidated him as it once did. The moment of peaceful stroking put a momentary pause to the churning in his gut.

A churning that returned with force when he made his way down the hill towards town. The reds, yellows and browns of coniferous trees nearly overwhelmed the last traces of greenery, giving the collection of low buildings a warm impression. It rarely snowed in that part of the mountain ranges, with temperatures dropping to around five degrees at its coldest. Even at nearly four o'clock in the afternoon, dregs of sunshine still radiated heat in a humid cloud and every wandering figure was dressed in a thin jacket at most.

There was little by way of order to the arrangement of buildings in _Rivierie Ville_ , ironic given the almost obsessive organisation of Beauxbatons Academy. It would even have been difficult to distinguish shop from residency had it not been for the artful and often elaborate signs that swung just above doors, simplistic drawing of the wares of the shop, strewn with names in flowing letters: Bits and Bobs, Parchment Pages, Paulo's Wine and Spirits, Little Nook Inn, and perhaps half a dozen more. Wandering through the streets, Harry sought out one shop in particular. Upon sighting the lazily swinging sign of 'Amelie's Mediwares and Potions', he couldn't help his shoulders hunching slightly as the dancing of his nerves intensified. It took an enormous amount of willpower to push the door open to the tinkle of a bell.

The interior of the shop smelt like Madame Frescott's labs at the academy; the musty, herby scent that was not entirely unpleasant but induced one with the urge to sneeze. It was a dimly lit room due to the thin, drawn curtains, and was remarkably bare as far as shops went. Two walls were stacked with a multitude of jars and potion-making equipment, from stirring rods to small-brewing cauldrons and elaborate scales, while the wall in which the front door was embedded was bare save for a trio of empty wooden seats. The counter across the room, standing between two closed doors, was unattended.

Harry paused just inside the door, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He didn't want to be here, he was suddenly sure, but that spontaneous realisation wouldn't entice him to leave. Forcing himself to walk towards the empty seats – because his likelihood of fleeing was only heightened by standing – he sunk onto the hard, flat wood of the chair. A moment later a middle-aged woman dressed in a shawl over her robes and headscarf over mousy hair strode from the door to the left of the counter. She paused at the sight of Harry.

"Ah, you must be…"

"I'm Harry Potter."

The woman, who Harry assumed must be the shopkeeper Amelie, offered him a short smile and nodded her head. "You're here to see _Señora_ Laverde?"

"Y-yes, I am."

Another nod. "Won't be a moment, I'll just let her know you've arrived." In a sweep of skirts, Amelie vanished through the door on the right this time. There was a soft click as it swung closed behind her on well-oiled hinges.

Harry took a deep breath, an attempt to calm himself that failed dismally. _Señora_ Socorro Laverde was a psychologist from the south of the Pyrenees. Not a ministry appointed counsellor as Draco saw on a weekly basis, but an independent mind-healer of sorts who specialised in overcoming a range of deep-seated, long-term psychological troubles and disorders. In short, she was exactly the sort of person that Harry needed to see.

Harry hadn't found her himself, really. Since the incident when he'd had a panic attack of sorts with Draco, he'd been searching for an appropriate healer who was both relatively experienced in the area he required and was not too distantly located. He'd sought potentials with a passion that left his prior hesitancy to do so in the dust behind him. It had been a wake-up call, what had happened with Draco. Even in his brief slips when he recalled what had happened in his past, with his uncle and otherwise, he would cringe so obviously that Tali wasn't the only one who noticed.

He felt ashamed. Disgusted with himself, even. Not for the memories themselves, exactly; though they caused him an persistent and un-ignorable amount of pain, the primary emotion he felt to their recurring presence was irritation. Simply, why did they have to be there? It was an annoyance that arose and swelled irrationally and seemed to hunker itself idly in his path towards whatever task he was presently attempting to accomplish. Nothing particularly concerning.

Except then had been the incident with Draco. He could still remember the absolute horror, fear, even, that had played across his partner's face when Harry pushed him away from himself. Draco wouldn't approach him, wouldn't even look at him right after it had happened, and for one horrible moment Harry had been sure he would turn tail and run at the rejection he had been subjected to. Harry had never felt more guilty for anything in his life, more utterly mortified with his own behaviour, but if he were to be honest with himself, if such an experience were to befall him again he knew he would act exactly the same way.

Everything had been going fine. _More_ than fine. Harry loved embracing Draco, loved the feel of his warmth, of long, slender fingers stroking over his skin, the feel of soft, blonde locks trailing through his fingers. The taste of Draco's breath on his tongue, the feel of his lips. He loved it, in a way he'd never loved anything before. When Draco had kissed him upon their meeting, he'd been lost to those sensations.

Until suddenly, it was as though he wasn't even in the back room of the Three Broomsticks anymore. He wasn't sure what had tripped him into his memories, but he did know that it was entirely his fault. Not Draco's. Never Draco's. Memory overwhelmed him, so clear and stark that it had been as though he were at his uncle's house once more. The darkness of the room, the sound of his uncle's heavy panting, tight fingers grasping his wrist and a thick, muscular thigh wedged between his knees, forcing his legs apart. Like a wave crashing over him, it had been overwhelming, and he had only the faint presence of mind to ask Draco to stop.

That in itself was huge. Harry had never put up a fight with his uncle before, not since the very early days when he had lived in France. What was the point? It wouldn't do anything anyway, wouldn't solve anything. But for some reason, when his presence of mind swum back into clarity, he saw his arms pushing Draco away, heard the pathetically thin waver of his voice begging Draco to stop. Even recalling the sequence of events in retrospect he couldn't comprehend why he had done as much, why he had suddenly acted that way.

There was only one possible path to follow after such ab experience. Harry would have to see someone, would have to do something, to try and fix the problem that arose with his memories. He was under no allusions; it would be no short, nor easy task, but he had to try. Draco deserved more than what he could offer him in his state. It was unfair to his him, and Harry would do anything if he thought it would make Draco happy. Unfortunately his subconscious just seemed to kick up a fuss when he tried.

Draco had been only supportive. In the weeks since, Harry had received a number of files on medi-witches and wizards that Draco thought would be suitable for Harry. Never pushing, of course; no, never that. In fact, if Harry hadn't know Draco better, he would have thought that the other boy was actively encouraging him to burn the files upon receiving them. Every wad of folded parchment was accompanied by a notation: "I found these, but I don't know if it's what you're looking for. Probably not; none of them really sound good enough," and "Here are some more suggestions. I doubt these will be any better than the last. Please don't see anyone that you aren't comfortable with seeing. You don't have to go anywhere unless you think it would be absolutely perfect." And on the tail end of each letter, the same question: "Do you want me to come with you?"

Though the letters and suggestions came nearly as frequently as their usual correspondence, Harry never got the impression that Draco was pushing him into counselling. He seemed just as, if not more nervous at the prospect than Harry was. It baffled him at first – wouldn't Draco want him to get over his problems? Wouldn't that make it easier for him? – until the reality made itself known and left Harry subdued with the enormity of his realisation. Draco didn't care a lick about what the memories, the nightmares, did to him personally. He was simply worried about Harry.

It was the most overwhelming feeling; Harry had never known a person to care so completely about him before.

Eventually, he had honed down the potential mind-healers into those most suitable and most accessible. Sending out letters to correspond – an awkward and uncomfortable process, certainly – he'd narrowed it down further. _Señora_ Lavere had been the one he had felt most drawn to. She was not overly pushy and vibranatly enthusiastic, as some replies he had received indicated. Nor was she particularly verbose in her assurances that yes, she believed she could help him. But there was a gentle reassurance, a confidence in her written words, that calmed Harry slightly. That she was prepared to Portkey to _Rivierie Ville_ once a week, to the local medical centre that doubled as a potions supply shop, to meet him was even more reassuring.

That in itself was gratifying, that she would go to such lengths. Beauxbatons and the surrounding countryside was untraceable on a map, a deterrence mechanism for approaching Muggles much the same way that Hogwarts appeared as a ruinous castle. It was as though the entire complex, over one hundred kilometers squared, was simply veiled beneath an impenetrable dome that non-magical folk could not access. Hence the use of Pegasus and carriage; Portkeying was one of the few ways to access the area by other means, and such a method hardly came cheaply.

 _Señora_ Lavere had suggested they set up a two-hour meeting on Thursday afternoon after Harry had finished his classes. Just to get a feel for one another, she'd said, to see if he thought she was the sort of person he was looking for. Harry had agreed, a jumble of nerves that had made it nearly impossible to write a reply to the woman, which had led to his current huddled perch on a wooden seat in the front room of a potions supplies shop.

He didn't have to wait long. Barely five minutes after Amelie had disappeared, she returned in a click of heeled boots. A tall, slender woman followed on her tail. Entering the room, the woman spoke a quiet word to Amelie, who nodded and departed again moments later. The room seemed eerily quiet with her absence.

 _Señora_ Lavere was an physically unassuming woman. Dressed in simple, conservative robes of a dark green, she had shoulder-length black hair that framed a thin, olive-skinned face and flat features. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about her appearance, except perhaps the prominence of the colour green. The vibrant shade on her fingernails, reflecting the jewellery dangling from her ears, seemed at odds with her otherwise subdued presence.

When she turned towards Harry, however, her eyes bore a warmth and kindness that he'd rarely beheld in strangers. She gave him a small smile. " _Bonjour_ , Harry. It's such a pleasure to finally meet you."

Standing from his seat, Harry stepped hesitantly across the room. He stopped a good three paces away. " _Enchante_ , _Señora_ Lavere. I, um.. I just wanted to thank you, so much, for coming all the way out here to see me."

Lavere's smile widened and there was nothing plain about the kindness it radiated. "Not at all, Harry. And please, call me Socorro. Shall we perhaps come into my office for a bit more privacy? Get to know one another a bit more?"

Harry dipped his head at the suggestion. He hadn't realised until that moment how eager he was to get out of the open shop front. Though no one else intruded upon the easy stillness, Harry cringed internally at the thought of someone coming in and witnessing anything he had to say. Not that he'd truly expected their meeting to take place in the shopfront, but it was still reassuring to be validated in his assumption.

Harry followed Socorro through the right-hand door she had entered from into a short, dimly lit hallway. The tall woman took the first door on the right and smiled as she directed him into a similarly dimly lit room of two couches, a half-filled bookshelf, and a bubbling fish tank seated on a cabinet beneath the curtained window. A simple clock of Roman numerals ticked quietly on the wall, bronze pendulum swinging merrily. It was a cosey room, not too cluttered but without the sparseness that could make one feel small for excess space. Harry folded himself into one of the couches as directed, but couldn't quite urge himself to sit deeper than the very edge of his seat.

Socorro didn't seem to mind. She eased back into her own chair, and, producing her wand from her sleeve, conjured a notepad of thick parchment paper and a quill. A very green quill, Harry noted absently, the continued theme drawing the hint of a smile onto his lips.

"Now, Harry, I don't now what you're really expecting from these meetings, so if it's alright with you I think this first session will just be us getting to know one another a little bit. Letting me understand what sort of support you are seeking, and together we can decide if you think we can work towards a goal that's suitable to you. Does that sound satisfactory?"

Harry nodded shortly, affixing his eyes onto the rug between them. Despite Socorro's kind, soothing and deep voice, he couldn't bring himself to reply with anything more, let alone meet her gaze.

Socorro, thankfully, didn't seem to require anything more than that. "Wonderful," she said, and she truly did sound heartened by the prospect. "Now, I'm just going to give you a bit of an overview of what I do, how I usually go about these sessions, and you can feel free to ask me any questions, alright?"

Harry nodded once more, still unable to speak for the dryness of his tongue, the firm press of his lips. Again, a reply appeared unnecessary as a moment later Socorro was speaking in her low, soothing voice. A slightly formulaic recitation she spoke in, all things told, but Harry found such impersonal words to be calming. She informed him of her work, of which he'd already had an inkling, of how long she'd been a psychologist for, and gave a couple of examples of clients she had worked with. Never giving names, of course, and always very loosely described, but the effect was reassuring. Harry found himself drawn to her explanation of a young girl who had suffered from a chronic illness that caused her physical debilitation and triggered a descent towards depression, to the elderly man who was struggling with the loss of his wife and his growing agoraphobia. The examples were as broad and varied as could be imagined, yet held a single, common feature: they were all people who had suffered, and they all needed help.

"What I'm going to do in our meetings, Harry, is I'll ask you some questions, and you just tell me what you feel most comfortable with. If you don't wish to talk, you do not have to. The limits of what you share with me relies entirely upon what you feel comfortable with." She smiled that gentle smile once more, Harry catching the brief appearance of it from where he peered up at her through fringe and with lowered chin. "I'm not here to push you into doing anything you don't want to."

Nodding his head, Harry managed to utter a quiet "Thank you."

"No thanks are necessary at all." Shifting slightly in her seat, Socorro leant forward slightly. 'Now, Harry, I'll be using a specially tailored Quick-Quotes-Quill. Do you have any objections to that?" At Harry's dissent, she uttered her own thanks. "I know some people don't feel comfortable with them due to their use and abuse in the journalist world, but I can assure you that any and everything that we talk about in here is absolutely confidential.

"Now, if you don't mind, Harry, I'd just like to ask you a few questions."

Swallowing past the returning dryness in his mouth, Harry nodded. "Okay. Um, yeah, sure."

"Lovely." She tapped her wand to the green quill briefly and it rose like a darting hummingbird over the notepad on her lap. Harry tugged his eyes away from it, drawing his gaze to the floor once more. "Would you mind telling me a little bit about yourself? Anything is fine, just so I get to know you a little bit."

So Harry began. He spoke hesitantly, stiltedly, of his childhood. Just little things; where he lived, who he lived with, what schools he attended. Nothing noteworthy, save perhaps the mention of his parents' death, but the facts of such were learned by word of mouth, not a figment of his memory. His early childhood especially was only a distantly remembered if at all.

"And your family. The Dursleys? What were they like?"

Harry opened his mouth but no words came out. It was to be expected, he supposed. Socorro had made him feel comfortable, but even so, he had never shared anything about his past with another, save for Draco, and even then not in any particularly descriptive depth. "I… um, I don't really know."

"Just start off simple. What were their names?"

"There was… my uncle Vernon. My aunt Petunia, and my cousin Dudley."

"And you lived in England with them?"

"Yes, until I was eleven."

"And did you like it with them? They took you in after you lost your parents, yes?"

His voice died again, briefly. "I…I don't know…"

"You don't have to tell me if you don't feel comfortable doing so, Harry. We can talk about it another time, perhaps."

Shaking his head, Harry bit his lip. Absently, he realised that one of his hands had raised to pick idly at the skin of his collarbones. It took an active force of will to suppress the urge to scratch. "No, it's… I've just never talked about it with anyone before, I don't really know…how."

"That's entirely understand. Really, it is. There's nothing to worry about."

Harry offered a wobbly smile of gratitude that Socorro returned in double and far more firmly. "Thank you." He cleared his throat. "I didn't have a very good relationship with my mother's side of the family. It was… they didn't like me. At all."

"What makes you think this? Did they say something to you?"

Harry had to fight the urge to spit out a humourless laugh. Say something? Only everyday. The only time they'd ever really spoken to him was in spite, to scold or to order. "I guess you could say that. Th-they thought… I think my aunt especially very much begrudged having to take me in. But, well, a lot of the time it wasn't really with words, exactly."

"Not with words? How do you mean?"

This time, Harry couldn't reply. He couldn't even bring himself to open his mouth, but instead stared fixedly on the rug. The silence lasted for a few moments only before Socorro broke it. Harry wasn't sure if he was expecting her to be irritated or frustrated by his silence. She wasn't. Her tone was the same, as low and steady as it had been since he'd met her.

"You said you moved away from the Dursleys when you were eleven. Who did you live with?"

The session proceeded as such. Harry answered superficially, mostly, or in broken, garbled attempts that he feared were barely comprehensible. He winced at each time his voice failed him; the picture he presented to Socorro was as punctured with holes as an old dish rag.

Socorro was calm, soothing, and despite the words Harry uttered, the memories he dredged up, the fluttering of his nerves were withheld for the progression of the meeting. There was a number of times when a certain question, a simple statement that he uttered, would bring a flash of red-rimmed memory to the forefront of his mind and he would pause, squeeze his eyes closed and ride it out the upwelling of emotion. The memory of his uncle… The sound of a gun fired too close to his ear… Pansy's face lax in pale stillness…

All the while, the stunted hands on the clock behind him ticked in their merry chanting.

* * *

The sun was lazing in a slow descent by the time Harry left _Rivierie Ville_. Socorro had seen him to the door, asking quietly of when – and if – he wished to have another session, and when would be easiest for him. Harry had stared at her blankly for a moment; her entire demeanour was exactly as it had been when he'd first met her. Even after what he had told her, after everything she could not have possibly missed with his broken replies, she treated him exactly the same. No disgust, or distaste, not at all, but more surprisingly there was not even any sympathy, not a hint of pity. As though the entire exchange had not even occurred. It was… surreal. And entirely relieving.

In fact, the sole comment Socorro gave that was even markedly suggestive of concern was to question if he needed some time to sit down before leaving, or if perhaps he wished her to accompany him back to the castle. Harry had gratefully declined either offer and given her a small wave and another word of quiet thanks before leaving.

Oddly enough, Harry felt… exhausted. Almost drained, like the feeling of weariness experienced after a long study session. The buzz of memories, those he hadn't shared with Socorro, muttered in his head, but they were not overwhelming. Not quite, anyway. Their muted voices just seemed… constant. Persistent. On top of that, the skin around his collarbones was scraped raw from scratches he hadn't even been aware he was making. It was regretful, the slight sting, but mostly because Harry knew that Draco would be upset to see it. His partner would always catch his hands in his own when he saw them twitching in their anxious response.

It was a lot slower trudge back up to the academy, and not only because it was mostly uphill. By the time he made it to the Eastern Tower _vent tuyaux_ he was nearly stumbling from tiredness. Who knew talking would be so exhausting?

Pausing at the archway into the elevating system, Harry noticed for the first time that his hands were shaking. Not a slight shiver, but a noticeable shake. The sight of it, apparently, seemed to alert every other part of his body to his plight, and within seconds he was struggling to hold back tears, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing a hand to his trembling lips.

And suddenly, he missed Draco terribly. Even more than usual, if such was possibly. He wanted to hold him, to wrap his arms around him and feel his warmth, feel the force of Draco's own arms lock around him and cocoon him in a gentle yet firm embrace in return. He missed him so much that it took a physical effort not to spin around, race the short distance towards the pegasus loading bay and beg Jean to take him back to Paris.

 _I wish I'd asked him to come with me_ , Harry thought suddenly. It was selfish of him, he knew. It would have been entirely indulgent to ask Draco to travel all the way to France and into the Pyrenees Wizarding Complex for such a trivial reason. Even if Draco had suggested to do as much first. Besides, he'd be seeing him tomorrow afternoon anyway.

Still, it didn't help the ache of longing. Somehow he knew that if Draco was there he would make everything okay. All bearable. Draco's presence was a reassurance in a way that no one elses was. Not Neville's. Not even Sirius', though Harry knew that his godfather would be in a carriage in a heartbeat had he asked him to join him.

 _Selfish. Indulgent. You're fine, just deal with it,_ he coached himself. It would have been easier if he knew exactly what it was that had upset him.

Making his way through the network of the Palace, Harry unconsciously found himself drawn to _la_ _Grand Pièce_. He glanced up just as he ascended the last of the internal spiral of stairs. Just as well, for otherwise he would have missed Tali and Neville's presence entirely.

The pair sat on the usually empty seats that lined the walls on either side of the dining hall's door. Just the two of them, Neville surprisingly without Aime's accompaniment, and hence that of Melody and Madalane. Both silent, too, which in itself was astouding; Neville was hardly a quite person by nature, and Harry doubted if Tali had gone for more than a handful of minutes without speaking the entire time he knew him. She generally spoke even trough every class. He suspected she likely murmured in her sleep, too – intelligently, of course, and likely in deep thinking debates with herself.

As he stepped into the hall just outside of the dining room, both of them glanced up. Tali paused in her motion of stroking Lyssy's back, the cat curld in her lap, and a small smile of welcome tugged at her lips. Said cat pricked her ears and, in a motion so swift he barely saw it, she leapt from Tali's lap, darted across the floor and scaled Harry's robes like a monkey. It couldn't be helped if his arms naturally enclosed around her, pressing the warm body to his chest in a near-desperate hold. At least if it wasn't Draco, Lyssy would do. Lyssy had always been there when he needed her.

Tali's smile had died by the time she and Neville made their way across the room towards him. They stopped a good handful of steps away, both peering at him warily.

"How did it go, Harry? Are you alright?" Neville spoke quietly, so that not even a faint echo rung through the wide foyer. He at least knew the reason for Harry's town visit, but because Harry had told him rather than deducing as much with the supernatural perception skills of Tali.

Harry attempted a smile. It felt brittle on his face. He nodded jerkily before dropping his chin onto the soft fur of Lyssy's head. "It was fine. Fine, it was… She was really nice." The following silence was deafening.

For the first time since arriving, Tali spoke up. Truthfully, Harry was surprised she'd held her tongue for so long. "Arry? Can I ask you something?"

Blinking up at her through his fringe, Harry raised an eyebrow. "Of course."

She pursed her lips thoughtfully for a moment before speaking. Always quietly, but with her usual speed that bespoke thoughts racing at a million miles an hour. "Look, I know you don't really like people touching you. I mean, you let them if they want to but I doubt you actually like it. From what I can see, anyway. But I was just wondering," she paused, and Harry frowned in confusion, unsure of where she was going with her statement. "I was just wondering… can I give you a hug?"

It was so unexpected, both in sentiment and in the request itself, that the composure Harry had been rebuilding since stepping back into the Palace shattered. He dropped his chin further into Lyssy's fur, feeling his chin tremble. _Why am I even upset? What is it that has made me so upset? I hardly even said anything to Socorro, so why…?_ He didn't particularly want to be hugged, didn't like being hugged by anyone but Draco, but even so he nodded. If it would make Tali happy –

Surprisingly strong arms wrapped around him. Tali was not a large girl, so her embrace wasn't swaddling. Nor was she tall, on par with Harry almost exactly. But her hold was firm, and warm, and much to Harry's surprise, it was comforting.

No, Harry didn't like being hugged. Not if it wasn't by Draco. The immediate repulsion, the unconscious fear of taint alongside the physical discomfort, made it impossible. When Hermione forgot herself and threw her arms around him, he let her because she just seemed to delighted at the fact, but it still felt wrong. When he'd embraced his friends before leaving for Beauxbatons at the beginning of term, it was because he knew they wouldn't really understand if he didn't. He was getting better with the sensation, but it still felt unnatural.

So it was a wonder that this girl, this golden-eyed, fiery haired girl that spoke as though her tongue had a will of its own, could embrace him so comfortably. Harry had barely known her for two months and yet…

It was too much. Harry didn't realise how much he'd been holding it all in until that moment. He felt his shoulders begin to tremble once more, muscles seizing, and before he could help himself the tears began to fall. Neville didn't say anything, just watching silently from beside them. Tali didn't say anything either, simply holding him tightly.

_Why am I even crying?_

The question hung in his mind, doing nothing to still the fall of tears that poured in an endless and messy torrent.

* * *

_Draco,_

_I know I wrote you just this morning. And I know you're visiting tomorrow. But I just felt like I really needed to talk to you._

_I met with_ Señora _Lavere today. Socorro, she asked me to call her. She's very nice. Very comfortable to talk to. Thank you for recommending her; I wouldn't have had the slightest clue of how to find someone if you hadn't helped me. Sirius would have helped, but I still think I'd feel a little uncomfortable asking him. I think she'll be very nice to work with, to try and sort things out with._

_I don't know why, since we didn't really talk about anything too specific, but it was really hard. I don't know, maybe I'm just being a bit pathetic. Thank goodness only Neville and Tali were there when I cried. Tali was great; she seems to really know the right thing to do, you know?_

_I'm sorry, I'm rambling. I hope Athena doesn't wake you up – I just felt like I had to talk to you, just a little bit. Don't reply before tomorrow. Or better yet, don't worry about replying at all before I can speak to you in person. Really, don't. I'll be angry if you do._

_I love you._

_Harry._

* * *

  _Harry,_

_You can hardly tell me not to write back to you immediately when you send me a letter, no matter the subject or the hour. I could be in the middle of one of Snape's detentions and I'd still manage to get one off straight away. Don't think I wouldn't; I resent you underestimating my skill._

_I'm sorry you had to go alone. I should have gone with you. Next time you go, I'm coming to France even if I have to skip school to do it. No, don't complain. This isn't me asking; I'm just letting you know. You shouldn't have had to handle that by yourself. I know from experience that it's tiring, it's hard. It's emotionally draining to share your trouble with someone, though unexpectedly I've found it's easier talking to a stranger. Do you find the same?_

_You know, I think I might like this Tali person. From what you've said of her only, of course; I'll withhold further judgment until I actually meet her. But I'll have to thank her when I meet her for being there for you when I couldn't be. You shouldn't have to cry alone. You know I hate it when you cry._

_I'm glad_ Señora _Lavere seemed to suit you. It was a suggestion from my mother, actually. She used to work with Legilimancy and psychology. I think I told you? She's considering doing so again, actually. I'll relay your thanks. Anyone that can make you feel comfortable is decent in my books. And if you approve, then she meets just about all the criteria, as far as I'm concerned._

_Please write me again tomorrow if you feel even the slightest bit upset. I'll call in a favour from Severus and leave school early. I'm serious._

_I love you too,_

_Draco_

_P.S. You'll be pleased to hear that your raven is truly as smart as ever. I'm unsure of the wisdom of naming her after a Muggle goddess who basically invented strategy; Athena appears to be attempting to embody her namesake. She unlocked my window from the outside and woke me up in the middle of the night. Make sure you give her a treat for doing so, would you?_


	6. Discord and Pointed Suggestions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am by no means a misogynist. I'm worried that this chapter may come off a little bit that way but I swear I'm not! I just... Daphne's just a b*tch! Can't be helped.

The cauldron before him fizzled idly, the smooth, thick liquid of bubblegum pink breathing little puffs of sickly sweet odour. Draco wasn't paying it any mind; the instructions on the board indicated that it was supposed to simmer for fifteen minutes. He was ahead of class and there was only so long one could watch a bubbling cauldron before it just became too boring. His attention was instead focused upon Hermione's inkwell across room as he silently urged it to rise into the air.

It was working, too. He'd managed numerous times throughout the class already, a silent, wandless command breathed at the inanimate object. Fixing his eyes intently on the little granite pestle, he twitched his fingers under the table. _Rise. Come on, lift in the air._

A moment later the carved granite utensil rocked slightly on its side before levitating off the table. Draco released his breath in a sigh of satisfaction. Three attempts in a row, and he'd succeeded every time. A pleased smile spread across his face that wasn't fazed even slightly by the exasperated glare Hermione directed towards him. She rolled her eyes with he raised his hand, twirling his finger in a motion that sent the pestle spinning in tandem. She huffed a sigh but didn't comment, turning back to her own cauldron.

Draco had been attempting to learn wandless magic for weeks now. Wordless magic was largely assumed knowledge by seventh year for all but the more complex of spells, but wandless magic took a whole new level of concentration and skill. And practice. Always practice.

Since he had first met Harry, Draco had been captivated with his ability to conduct wandless magic. More than that, Harry seemed to find it easier than using a wand itself. Draco understood Harry's explaination to a degree; Harry professed that it was no exceptional skill on his part, but simply that he couldn't wrap his head around using the wand as a conduit. That, and he'd been practicing wandless magic his entire life and to suddenly be told that 'magic was done first and foremost with a wand' was a little redundant to him. Even so, Draco found it impressive.

So, upon starting the new term, he had decided he would make it a personal goal. At present he had mostly focused on first year spells. Simple charms and transfigurations that he could cast in his sleep with a wand in hand. It had taken a number of frustrating attempts to manage even rudimentary spells; Draco believed he'd never be able to look at a matchstick again after the hours he put in attempting to transfigure it into a needle.

Weeks down the track and he was gradually growing in competency, though still mostly practiced simple spells. Even they exhausted him, and he had to wonder at the abilities of older, more experienced witches and wizards for their sheer capacity to perform such feats with apparent ease. Draco wouldn't give up, though. There was a certain thrill to casting magic without a wand. It gave him an upwelling of satisfaction that he'd never experienced before.

When the clock struck two-sixteen, Draco reluctantly stoppered his attempts at urging Hermione's pestle to dance a jig and turned back to his potion. He was nearly at the end of the instructions, and the hardest part was complete. All that was left was to grind the dragonfly wings into a powder, fold thin garter snakeskin into the mix before stirring the combination into the cauldron and his Brew of Malevolent Intent would be completed. Quite satisfactorily, if he considered.

Class finished with tolling of the school bell, sending a communal groan of relief from over half of the students. Slughorn raised his head, blinking rapidly with a sleepy smile upon his lips before waving the class out. Draco could have sworn the man had been dozing since he'd voiced his instructions and slumped into his seat, but it hardly mattered. They were seventh years; self-instruction was a significant part of their learning.

Heaving himself to his feet, Slughorn cleared his throat. "Alright, lovely. Wonderful. If everyone could stopper their testing vials and place them in the fume cupboard with their labels; name, date and time if you would." He gave an admonishing smile. "Remember, this Brew can be absorbed cutaneously, so ensure that all instruments, cauldrons and spillages are cleaned appropriately. We wouldn't want a horde of angry first years charging through the halls after their early morning lesson tomorrow, would we?"

At Draco's side, Blaise snorted and had to bow his head at the image the potions professor presented. Draco fought his own grin with difficulty. It was hard not to laugh with Blaise these days. The boy seemed to embrace good humour with a flair that left belief of previous despondency bordering on the unimaginable. Draco doubted his friend was entirely recovered from the events of the previous year, maybe laughed in compensation and would remain heart sore for the loss of Pansy for a long time still, but he was getting better. Slowly but surely, he _was_ getting better. Draco rarely saw him fall into the brooding sadness that was once so uncharacteristic of him yet so frequently surfacing.

Packing his cauldron away after casting a Vanishing Charm on the remaining contents of his potion, Draco packed his bag and followed his friend towards the door. Hermione fell into step beside him, Ron trailing behind her in his motion chair, grumbling unintelligibly.

"It would have been fine if you'd just listened to me when I told you your cod eyes weren't mashed up enough," Hermione sighed long-sufferingly without even sparing Ron a glance. "It's the mashing, Ron, you need to –"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. The pieces were too big to dissolve or whatever." Ron grumbled something more beneath his breath to inaudible to hear but seemed to thrust aside his displeasure a moment later. "Thanks, though, for giving me a hand with patching it back up."

"You know, I'm starting to wonder if you only want me around for the help I can give you in class," Hermione replied, but the faint smile on her chin indicated there was little real dissatisfaction to her words. Draco had to bite back the urge to voice a suggestive comment. It was hardly needed, the pair were so obvious.

Hermione and Ron had finally – _finally_ – admitted their feelings for one another barely two weeks passed and had been almost sickeningly sweet ever since. Draco and Blaise agreed to take turns teasing them incessantly, eliciting an apparently endless supply of blushes and stammering "shove off"s from them both. Not that they really needed to persist with such good-natured teasing; Neville had quite spectacularly done so for them. The morning after the two Gryffindor's admission, seated at the Slytherin table, the pair had received a rather explosive Howler of congratulations and reprimand of "took you long enough" that had left the entire Great Hall wheezing with laughter. Ron had furiously and unsuccessfully attempted to smother the wailing letter, his face as red as his hair, while Hermione sunk so low in her seat as to nearly disappear beneath the table. It had taken Blaise a good hour before he could quell his laughter for more than a few minutes at a time.

The Congratulatory Howler, as it was called, had a rather profound effect on the students and teacher of Hogwarts. Though the development from woebegone mournfulness to relative normalcy had been spreading throughout the entirety of the school, the Great Hall had remained under a near-constant state of hush. Neville's letter had been like a hammer taken to a glass window; that wariness that pervaded the hall, shrouded as it was in memories, seemed to shatter with one hit. Meal times were almost… normal after that.

Everything was turning back to normal, it seemed. Save for the few outliers, those that ostracised themselves from the general populous for isolating grief or simply detached listlessness, Hogwarts' residents were demonstrating more cohesion than ever before. Draco found, for the first time, that he felt very little dislike for anyone in the castle. The Gryffindors would always be idiotically forward, Ravenclaws aloof and consescending and Hufflepuffs infuriatingly simpering, but Draco could live with that. There was no one who really –

"Draco, would you mind if I spoke to you for a moment?"

It took a physical effort to suppress his groan. Turning in the doorway to Slughorn's rooms, Draco met the expectant gaze of Daphne Greengrass. The girl had effectively dammed the flow of seventh years, causing an upwelling of huffs and exasperted murmurs. Daphne didn't appear to even notice them.

"What could we possibly have to talk about, Daphne?"

The girl flipped her long hair over one shoulder in a motion of practiced grace. Her heavy-lidded eyes fixed on his intently. "Now, Draco, don't be obtuse. Where are your manners?"

Sighing, Draco felt the sudden urge to turn his head into the door frame and strike it rather firmly against the hard wood. It would be preferable to the unavoidable conversation he was on the verge of undertaking. A sympathetic hand patted his back unobtrusively and with a half-turn he caught the pitying expression on Blaise's face. His friend nodded slightly before stepping backwards and continuing through the doorway himself.

Turning once more towards Daphne, Draco nodded briefly. "Alright. But do you mind if we make our way out to the hall? You are somewhat of blocking the highway here."

Daphne raised an eyebrow at that, glancing behind herself as though she honestly hadn't perceived herself to be 'in the way', before nodding and following him out. Blaise muttered a nearly inaudible "we'll just wait for you round the corner" before Draco led Daphne to an adjacent corridor in the other direction to the majority of his fellow student's headed.

He knew what was coming and could have laughed at his situation had it not been so _bloody_ frustrating. It had begun a few weeks ago. Apparently, with the general companionability of the students of Hogwarts, Daphne had taken it upon herself to rekindle some of the friendships of her past. Some of them, she shamelessly acknowledged, were more than a simple rekindling. One such relationship she seemed intent on rebuilding was that she'd shared with Draco.

Draco couldn't fathom it. Daphne was a siren in regards to the fact that she could have just about anyone she wanted, exactly when she wanted them. Boy or girl, her tastes were lenient, and she was not shamefaced about admitting as much. And Daphne always got what she wanted. When it came to Draco… Perhaps it was the thrill of the chase, or simply that, with Draco engaged in a relationship of his own, she felt the need to assert her prior claim once more, but for whatever reason she appeared to wish to revisit the disastrously superficial relationship of their past.

It was insufferable. What had started as a coy suggetion here and there had swollen into pointed and somewhat inappropriate comments that left Draco fuming. The girl was like a dog with a bone, and regardless of his claims that he was very much content with his relationship with Harry, Daphne wouldn't hear it. After one such rather blunt and entirely inappropriate suggestion to him before the entire seventh year transfiguration class, Hermione had drawn him aside and admonished him for "eliciting such a response" from the Slytherin girl. Suffice to say his growl of fury and seething rage for the rest of the day had mellowed her concerns somewhat. She didn't seem the slightest bit concerned for his faithfulness after that.

What was the worst part of it, however, was that Daphne knew. With an infallible sixth sense, she somehow knew that the depths of Draco's relationship with Harry was somewhat shy in certain areas. Certain, very distinctive, areas. He'd wondered if the girl was merely shooting in the dark until she had very deliberately confronted him not two days previously.

"Come on, Draco, it's obvious you're not getting any. What, your little boyfriend doesn't put out, hmm?" A predatory smile had spread across her face. "You poor thing. Must be hard. I'm sure he wouldn't blame you if you chose to… stray briefly." She'd left him staring open-mouthed after her swaying, coquettish departure, struggling to come to terms with her suggestion. It had surprised him so completely that he had hardly felt angry about her very blatant insinuation until later that evening.

Daphne had always been forward, but she was not a cruel girl. Manipulative with the best of the Slytherins, yes, but never malicious or intentionally cold-hearted. Hence, Draco was surprised at the hard edge to her suggestion, took resentment in her tone that took him a while to understand.

Daphne was jealous.

As hard as that was to believe – there were plenty of fish in the sea where she was concerned – Daphne Greengrass was jealous of his relationship with Harry. It was mind-boggling. He very much doubted she had any real feelings for him save perhaps possessiveness, but then… last year, when Harry had been at Hogwarts, even when they had publicly declared their relationship, he had never noticed her interest. Now, she was like a dog with a bone; she would _not_ leave it alone.

Glancing over his shoulder along the empty corridor to ensure no unwelcome eavesdroppers were about, Draco turned his attention towards Daphne. She smiled with excessive brightness; it was sickening to behold. Not for the first time over the past weeks Draco wondered that he had ever been taken with her. She was a beautiful girl, no doubt, but they had never had anything in common; he hadn't even particularly liked her. It had simply… happened. She had used Draco as much as he used her.

Physical attraction, that's all it had been. And now…

"What do you want, Daphne? You've been trying to call me out for days now. Just get it over with."

Daphne pouted in false dejection but it disappeared in a moment. The smile returned twofold. "You know what I want, Draco. You're not stupid."

Sighing, keeping a firm hold on his frustration, Draco took a step away from her. Pointlessly, as she simply made up the distance between them again in a smooth drift after him. "Neither are you, Daphne. I'm sure I've told you why –"

"I know what you've told me, Draco, but from what I've seen you are at your wits end a little bit." Her smile widened further. "Honestly, when was the last time you fucked someone?"

Frowning, Draco folded his arms and leant on the wall to his side. Daphne had been mildly irritating before, a buzzing fly that he could bat away and ignore before it regained its inclination to annoy him once more. Now she was truly beginning to vex him. Didn't she know when to stop?

It didn't help, of course, that though she approached it from the wrong angle she wasn't entirely inaccurate. But that hardly mattered. He didn't care about _that_ anymore. Physical intimacy was off the table, and it didn't matter. He didn't.

"Keep to your own business, Daphne. It hardly concerns you." He attempted a smirk of his own. "I'm with Harry. Why don't you understand that I can't fathom –"

"Oh, don't be dense, Draco." Daphne tossed her head, rolling her eyes and pouting further. "I know that. I'm not saying to start up anything serious." That annoying, flirtatious smile resurfaced. "You could still be with him. I don't have a problem with it, truthfully." The way she said it made Draco clench his jaw. "We could just… relieve some… tensions that I'm sure we both feel." Daphne dropped her heavy-lidded eyes, batting thick lashes slowly. Draco felt his own eyes drawn to follow, catching upon her pale fingers as they stroked with apparent casualness across the waistline of her school robe. He swallowed.

Daphne was a beautiful girl. Draco doubted that there would be few men in the school – the world even – who would deny her had she set her sights upon them. She wasn't short, yet neither was she tall. Not a large girl, but not slender with a skinniness that bespoke fragility. Her soft, golden curls hung in perfectly formed ringlets, threaded with a deeper bronze that mimicked the shade of her eyes. Large eyes, gleaming almost metallic, that could capture a passer-by and freeze them like the victim of a basilisk. Draco had seen her conduct her predation, watched her dive for the kill more times than he could count. And not a one of her prey went unwillingly, nor left with anything but longing and regret for her disregard.

He hadn't been exempt from her charms; for all he professed otherwise, laid claim to his proactivity, it was Daphne's inclinations that had initiated their physical relations. And Draco had been enthralled from the barest hint of suggestion. It had ended quickly and uneventfully when the Slytherin girl had set her sights upon a new target – Boot, if Draco recalled correctly – and he had been as regretful as the rest of her suitors. For a time, at least. So perhaps it was natural for her to assume he would succumb to any suggestion she put forth, like a loyal hound, neglected, that would eagerly scramble to its cruel masters heel at a moments notice.

Draco recognised Daphne's attractiveness. It would be so easy, so relieving, to simply release the aching need that settled within him with a companion more than willing. One who didn't flinch at the faintest touch of intimacy. Daphne was gorgeous, she _was_ attractive. Only…

It wasn't enough. Draco didn't feel even the faintest itch of arousal. Coldness washed through him at the blatant display of the girl. Yes, she was beautiful, but that beauty was so false. Not in reality, but simply in the sense that there was so much it veiled. When Draco thought of beauty, true beauty, his mind invariably turned to only one person.

"Daphne, your suggestion is far too forward. Beware, for another attempt and I ensure that certain secrets you would rather kept hidden become prime topics on the gossip grapevine."

Daphne batted her eyelids slowly, seductively, once. Twice, as though waiting for Draco to continue. Then her eyes widened. Her sculptured eyebrows rose and an expression of shock that Draco had never beheld before spread across her face. "What?"

"You heard me. Leave me alone." He hooded his own eyelids, straightening from his slouch against the wall and lifting his jaw slightly. He knew it was an intimidating stance because… well, because he'd practiced it. Repeatedly. In private. "I could make your life a living hell."

In any other instance, even Draco would have felt a twinge of remorse at his own words. Except that this was Daphne, and rather than her face falling into loss or hurt, even confusion, the shock switched immediately to affront, to indignation and finally into seething anger.

"You're actually going to say no to me?"

Draco snorted, chuckling dryly. "What, has that never happened before?" Her silence was answer enough. "In case you hadn't noticed, last year and throughout this entire year, my interests have lain with only one person." He smirked sardonically. "I'm not one to so easily change partners with the frequently of a fickle breeze."

It would have been comical to watch, the ugliness that twisted Daphne's face, had Draco not been struggling to suppress the anger and disgust that simmered within him. What, did she think that simply because Harry wasn't at Hogwarts, that he couldn't witness him straying, that Draco would seek pleasure with any willing participant? Did Daphne think him so low – no, so like _her_ – that he would forsake the love of his partner for a brief, lustful stint?

Apparently so, for only anger remained on Daphne's face. Anger and affront. Her nostrils flared like those of a dragon, her cheeks flushing redly. There was a sharp glint to her eye that Draco didn't feel altogether comfortable being the study of, but he could hardly bring himself to care. He maintained his cold front, the mask he had inherited as a legacy from his father, and watched as Daphne shrunk from him.

Even intimidated, shunned as she was, the Greengrass heir made good her status and left with class. Tilting her chin slightly, composure slipping like a veil across her face, her mouth curled into a smile that was only faintly twisted.

"Alright, then. If that's how you want it to be." Flicking her hair over her shoulder with a snap of her fingers, she spun on her heel and strode down the corridor with a swaying of hips. "Just don't come crawling to me when your precious little prude finally manages to drive you insane." She didn't even glance over her shoulder to deliver the final remark, disappearing around a distant corner.

A low whistle broke Draco from where he stared coldly in her wake. Turning, he noted the arrival of Blaise, Hermione and Ron edging slowly down the hallway behind him. Blaise had adopted an expression of smirking admiration, Ron of shock and mild horror while Hermione fixed him with a stare he couldn't quite discern the meaning of. It made him feel slightly uncomfortable.

"I can't believe you just turned Greengrass down. I mean, I know you've sort of been doing that already, but _fully_ turned her down. She's not going to be happy about that. No one turns down Greengrass." Ron's words were a hoarse whisper, his fingers gripping the arms of his motion chair as though he were clutching a lifeline.

Draco shrugged, attempting nonchalance as he fell into step beside his friends. Now that Daphne was gone, he felt as though a weight had lifted off his shoulders, and not just the weight of her presence. It was as though, with that small, simple challenge, he had reaffirmed his own feelings once more. His true feelings for Harry. It was an unexpectedly satisfying reassurance that he hadn't known he needed.

"I honestly don't care what she thinks. She can pull whatever she likes, play her games with _who_ ever she likes. It doesn't concern me, and if she happens to ask again I'll just tell her the same thing."

Blaise shook his head, smirk overwhelming his admiration. Draco wasn't sure if he should be comforted or disgruntled by the faint traces of surprise in Blaise's expression.

Hermione broke her silence, though she continued to stare penetratingly at Draco. "I very much doubt she'll offer again. I don't think it's that which you should worry about."

"What do you mean?"

Glancing briefly to meet his eyes, Hermione's frown deepened. "Greengrass is a bit of a force to be reckoned with. It's common knowledge amongst us seventh year girls. The same goes for the fifth years, so I've heard, with Astoria. Both may be tarts, and backstabbing rumourmongers, but they're awfully smart. Not to mention ruthless."

Blinking at the unexpectedness of Hermione's accusation, Draco had to bite back a grin. "Really, Hermione, I think I'll be fine."

The Gryffindor girl shrugged. "I know," she said, though she sounded dubious. "Just… keep an eye out, Draco. I wouldn't be surprised if the viper chose to lash out with unexpected force once more."

Despite his doubts, Draco nodded sincerely. He couldn't overlook the genuine concern in Hermione's voice, and felt warmed by it. As so often before, he marvelled that, even a year ago, he would have been repelled by the prospect of receiving comfort from a 'Mudblood'. "Certainly, Hermione. I'll be careful."

* * *

 

"Draco, see me after class."

Half raising his head, Draco nodded in acknowledgement to his godfather's nearly inaudible request. Or demand, more correctly. Snape didn't even glance over his shoulder to ascertain whether Draco had heard him, but continued his slow, crow-like strut around the room. Despite the supposed autonomy of seventh years, the Defence professor still watched them with a keen when they were assigned any written work, more even than with their practical work. As though they would be damning anyone save themselves by skiving off work in their final year of studies.

Snorting beneath his breath, Draco shook his head as he heard a drone of condescension from the man honing in upon an unsuspecting student. MacMillan, it looked like. Poor sod, he should have known better than to think that just because Snape wasn't looking directly at him that he couldn't see him peering at Perks' work beside him. Snape had a sixth sense for that kind of thing. What was he even copying anyway? Draco wondered, shaking his head again. All of the notes were on the board.

When the bell for the end of the period sounded, Draco simply nodded to Blaise at his side and retained his seat as his friends rose to leave. Hermione paused questioningly before Blaise whispered something in her ear and understanding dawned. Blaise had always been good with that; Draco didn't even need to tell him that his godfather had requested his presence anymore. Such requests had been occurring at least once a week for the entire term and after one digging jibe from the Italian boy he had dropped any curiosity over the matter entirely. They'd been friends far too long for Blaise to think he would manage to suck anything from Draco that he didn't want known.

As students filed past him towards the door, he slouched back easily in his seat, crossing his ankles beneath the desk. It was almost too easy to ignore Daphne's cold stare. It was only a stare, after all. Contrary to what Hermione had feared – and Draco had silently agreed with – the Slytherin girl hadn't made good her unspoken threat. She hadn't even whispered a bad word about him to anyone, which was admittedly surprising. In fact, the only suggestion that anything was afoot was her smouldering glares that neither seemed to have neither grown colder nor waxed in intensity in the week that had passed since their confrontation.

It was almost funny, really, how just a short while ago she had been attempting to woo him in her domineeringly assertive way. Draco supposed it was an indication of her true character and intentions how rapidly she'd shifted in her attitude.

When the last of the seventh years finally trickled through the door, Draco turned his attention to the front of the room. Predictably, his godfather had folded himself in his seat and was making himself busy with some papers or other. Strange, how he suddenly seemed to have marking to do precisely when Draco was awaiting his attention. Attention that Snape had insisted upon monopolising.

Sighing over the familiarity of the procedure, Draco heaved himself to his feet. And if he walked more slowly than normal towards the front desk, who could blame him? Snape certainly wasn't.

"You wanted to talk to me, professor?"

Snape nodded absently, eyes flickering over the parchment before him. Upside down, Draco could just make out the smudged scrawl of a title: 'Measuring the Intensity of a Blasting Curse'. Rudimentary Defence work, that, second year at most. Certainly not something to consume his Snape's attention so completely. Draco nearly laughed at the farce; it was so like a Slytherin, so like himself, really, to pretend even when in the presence of those one considered closest. Not that Drac really minded; he wasn't in a particularly bad mood, and it was the end of the day anyway. There wasn't anywhere he needed to be.

Finally, finishing the foot long parchment – had Draco ever written anything so short? – Snape folded his hands upon the desk before him and raised his gaze. The expected opening fell from his lips.

"How are you, Draco?"

Had anyone else heard the words, despite the monotonous drone they were voiced in, Draco suspected they would have concluded the use of a Polyjuice Potion, or a glamour at the very least. Draco had certainly had his own suspicions at first. They'd moved past that, however.

"Quite well, thank you, professor."

"Draco."

It was a silent reprimand, one tht was a requisite of each and every one of their meetings. _Well, how am I supposed to know if he want to resort to informality straight off the bat or not?_

"My apologies, Severus."

Since the end of the war, Severus had become more and more involved in Draco's small family. A frequent attendant at Narcissa's bedside, not to mention a steady hand and voice of experience when it came to the Malfoy finances, Draco suspected that he would not have survived the months following the death of Voldemort had it not been for his godfather. The Malfoy name certainly would not have survived so well. Questionably neutral as it was, Draco doubted that he would have resurfaced on the other side of the mass upheaval with even a shadow of the good name that he did had it not been for Severus. Despite his apparently cold and unfriendly front, the Defence professor was adept at manoeuvring pureblood circles, even half-blood as he was. His relations with the Malfoy family, his camaraderie with Lucius in particular, had assured that he was well practiced in the intricate dance of society.

It was almost as though Severus were attempting to shoulder the burden that had arisen with the death of Draco's father. Both political and familial, if his near constant presence at Narcissa's beside was anything to go by.

It was unfortunate, then, that Draco had done nothing but attempt to extricate himself from embezzlement with pureblood circles. Without his father's presence, and with the blow to their confidence that had shaken the propriety of the nobles so completely, it was almost too easy to simply fade into the unobtrusiveness. Strange, how that which he had been taught to attempt to strive towards his entire life now seemed pointless, meaningless, to Draco.

He never thought he would ever consider it, but he found he rather preferred the company of… _not_ purebloods, significantly more to the decorous ancient blooded. Even Muggleborns. Occasionally.

Though that hardly meant he'd fall into bad habits. There was a certain etiquette one with Draco's upbringing should follow that, even when not utilised to its fullest, should never be shirked. Manners, for instance. And a keen hand in manipulation.

"Your studies are consistent. No difficulties in any subjects."

It was not a question. More a statement of fact, but Draco nodded anyway. "Of course. Did you expect otherwise?"

Severus narrowed his eyes. "I am merely affording you the opportunity to confess any struggles you may be facing, Draco, without the embarrassment of being forced to seek assistance directly yourself."

The words, that constant, monotonous drone, of course made short work of any requests for assistance that Draco may have possibly had. He was sure the man before him knew that the humiliation that would be shed upon him had he required any study aid would be increased tenfold. Not that he blamed Severus for his approach; he didn't even feel faintly resentful. The man wouldn't have spoken as such had he not been sure of Draco's confidence in his studies.

And Draco was. He was going as well as could be expected. Top marks in every class, on par only with Hermione, and even that did not faze him as it once would have. Hermione was exceptionally bright, and though Draco had nothing but faith in his own abilities, he could respect that she was at least a worth rival for rank. Hell, he doubted he would ever have grasped Transparency Charms had it not been for her.

"I am currently keeping up with all of my class and extension work, Severus. No teacher has voiced a complaint that I'm aware of." Draco didn't need to fight to keep smugness from his words. He spoke simple fact; there was no need for smugness at all when it was the simple truth.

"And your potions marks? I recall you having a block with the exactness of your weightings, though the result of such was negligible –"

"A block that has been worked through nearly a year past. You know that, I've already assured you that I've overcome the trifling errors brought about by youthful eagerness."

Severus' lips quirked just slightly at that. "Youthful eagerness?"

"I'm far matured since then, Severus."

"I'm sure." The slight quirk niggled at the corners of his mouth once more. "And what of your career prospects. How have you progressed with reaching your conclusions?"

At those words, Draco paused. He'd been skirting the subject for a while with Severus; in his earlier years, he was sure his godfather had been on the brink of actively encouraging him into Potioneering. Theoretical potioneering at that, urging him to follow in his own footsteps. Draco knew his father would have approved; he'd been directly told as much on numerous occasions. Told also that his natural flair for the subject would ensure he had a career in the future if he sought to follow that route. It was unfortunate then that his passions drew him elsewhere.

Draco had tried, subtly, to insinuate that his interests lay not in potion-making but rather in Rune-Mastery. Casual comments here and there, mentioning that Professor Babbling was exceptionally pleased with his deciphering skills, just to pave the way for the eventual admission. Perhaps it was time to confess?

"I have considered, Severus. At great length, mind, so this isn't a thoughtless decision, but –"

"You wish to pursue the study of Ancient Runes." Severus nodded his head knowingly, only a faint glint of amusement in his eye indicating he was simply toying with Draco. "What area do you intend to specialise in?"

Draco paused only for a moment. Maybe two moments, to ensure that his voice wasn't drawn with sighs of relief. Apparently Draco's attempts to indirectly alert Severus to his intentions had been received. _Thank Merlin, I thought for sure he'd push me into Potioneering, or Defence Teaching at the least_. "I have considered, but I'm as of yet unsure of what field I wish to pursue. Direct spell dictation would offer the most by way of career opportunities, though archaeology and translations are certainly more thrilling. But at the moment…" He trailed off with a shrug

"No matter. Both apprenticeships and institutional learning require at least another three years of study. Have you considered which approach you would prefer?"

Draco shrugged. "Institutional learning would ensure I met the criteria for just about any career I wanted, but an apprenticeship would give me the connections. I'd try for the latter if I could."

Severus bowed his head approvingly. "Wise of you to consider. Any particular Rune Masters?"

Pausing, Draco gathered his thoughts. He had considered at length, even though applications for apprenticeships didn't open until December at the earliest for the following season. There was little but pondering that he could do. "I'm unsure, as of yet. Master Fampwing is reputable, but he had nothing on Master Gilvorth." He shrugged. "I suppose I'll just try everyone I can."

"Not Lerman Dorrick? He is the leading Rune Master in Europe at present."

Nodding, ceding, Draco attempted to keep the note of longing from his voice. "Of course, but I've no doubt he will be buried beneath applications."

"That is no reason not to add your own to the list."

"Of course not. I've confidence in my abilities. But I should hardly assume that, even with my marks, it's a done thing." How much he wanted to be apprenticed under Dorrick; it was almost too much to hope for. "I'll await application dates and simply attempt correspondence when possible."

Severus met his eyes intently for a moment. Draco felt as though he was being studied like a rather unpredictable potions; he'd seen that look in his godfather's eyes before. Finally, the Severus nodded. "Then, as long as you are striving for the moon, you may at least reach some height before crashing down once more."

"That's rather pessimistic of you, Severus."

"Yet no less a possibility."

"True."

"And what of your other occupations?"

Draco suppressed a groan. He'd hoped that, in the light of his confession of career paths, the inevitable question of his sessions with Fitzherbert would have been avoided. He should have known better. Well, not that it really mattered that Severus asked. Everyone knew the mental state of the students; it was basically common knowledge amongst the staff. It was that damned duty-of-care. Still, even with his discomfort, Draco couldn't truly find himself resentful of the question. The upwelling of joy that had sparked in his stomach at Severus' easy acceptance of his passion for Ancient Runes quelled it somewhat. He wasn't unaware of the impact such approval had on him. Yes, Severus was very much stepping up to seat himself in a familial role, and surprisingly Draco found he didn't much mind.

"Fitzherbert thinks I've made progress. Which I agree with." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I don't know, I've been considering dropping the sessions, or even reducing their frequency. We struggle to bulk out the hour, now."

"Most likely because you are distracted with studies. Don't attempt to tell me otherwise, Draco. I know you are deeply embedded in your books at every spare moment." Severus' words were not quite disapproving, but it was a near thing. What kind of godfather discourages studies? Not a pureblood, that was for sure. "I don't think it necessary to limit support when it is offered so willingly. Make use of that which is given while you have the chance."

It was strange, hearing words so compassionate, caring even, coming from Severus' mouth. Yes, most witnesses would definitely suspect Polyjuice Potion. Draco said as much and Severus only rolled his eyes.

They proceeded with a superficial exchange, conversing of a number of topics from Narcissa's wellbeing – of which Severus likely knew more, considering he was the one who saw her every weekend. There was something to be said for that – to his relations with his school friends. The latter in particular would have left Draco shuddering in horror to even contemplate discussing wuth his godfather a year prior, and yet his relationship with Severus had changed significantly enough over that time that it no longer felt strange. Well, not overtly strange, anyway.

The interrogation – for casual as it was, that was undoubtedly what Severus saw it as – didn't last particularly long, and within half an hour Draco was nodding his head in farewell to his godfather and making his way towards the door. He paused, however, as his name was called once more. Turning, he raised a questioning eyebrow.

"How is the Potter boy?"

Draco blinked. Well, that was unexpected. He couldn't even fathom what had brought such a question about. Did Severus have some invested interest in his love life? He'd never shown any such interest in Harry before, save at the early weeks of his partners transfer into Hogwarts and that had been only to sneer and utter snide comments to the likes Draco had rarely witnessed outside of Severus' most hated Gryffindors. Such sneers had abruptly disappeared however with… yes, it was that incident, what seemed so long ago, when Pansy had cursed him with the _Visio Timora_ in sixth year. It had been a turning point of sorts for Severus; he'd subsided into his carefully constructed neutrality.

This new interest… was it an extension of Severus' recent fulfilment of a paternal role? Did he feel the need to know _everything_ about Draco's day-to-day life? Or was it just Harry's weird magnetic force thing, the accidental magic that made him rise to the forefront of the minds of friends and acquaintances alike. Though such a phenomena hadn't really happened for a while now… Not that Draco had noticed, anyway.

"He's going swimmingly, to be sure," Draco said, frowning. "Why?"

Severus turned his attention back towards his desk in a motion that Draco recognised a being either a gesture of frustration or embarrassment. He couldn't really tell which. "It is of little concern. A trifling curiosity."

"I thought you and every other teacher kept your own tabs on Neville and Harry." Draco purposefully overlooked the fact that Severus had not mentioned Neville's transfer once since it had taken place. Old grudges died hard, even when Draco's friend was no longer a Gryffindor. He and Severus had never gotten along with even a semblance of cordiality. "I was sure that McGonagall was keeping her ears wide open for any whisper that they weren't happy there so she could drag them back to Hogwarts."

Severus busied himself with his parchments. It was fascinating to watch his discomfort; Draco was almost certain it spoke of embarrassment. "Hardly your concern, Draco. It was merely a question." The drawl of his tone was far too pronounced to be casual.

Leaning against the doorframe, Draco couldn't quite keep the smile from spreading across his face. "Severus?"

Dark eyes flickered towards him. The man was not impressed. "You're excused, Draco."

"No thank you. I'm rather curious what interest you have in my partner. Harry is _my_ partner, after all." Draco settled himself into a deliberate slouch, a clear indication that he was not making a move to leave at any time soon. He couldn't quite keep his curiosity from showing. Besides, any opportunity to talk about Harry he welcomed gratefully.

Severus' lips thinned, but he evidently realised Draco wouldn't back down. And that he had a prior claim to the situation, for he finally nodded his head shortly. "I was merely concerned. The incidents of last year…"

"The Battle?" Draco frowned quizzically. Of course, everyone was shaken by the war, but Severus hardly had a reason to consider Harry more than anyone else.

Nodding his head, Severus slumped back slightly in his chair. "The Battle, yes, and prior incidents." This time Severus didn't need to explain what he was talking about. The _Visio Timora_ incident was fairly prominent in the memories of all the witnesses to the event.

Still frowning, Draco pushed himself off the doorframe. "But why do you care?"

Severus shrugged uncharacteristically. It made him seem markedly younger than his years. "I have my reasons."

"Severus –"

"I am aware of his living situation in the vaguest sense of the term. Or, more precisely, of his past living situation." Severus' eyes hardened and any flicker of immaturity abruptly faded. "I am sure you at least have an inkling of your own, Draco. I am not so cold-hearted as to feel nothing after coming to terms with such knowledge."

Draco was shocked. Surprised would have been too mild a term. He blinked rapidly, struggling for a reply to the completely unprecedented show of concern. Severus knew? More, he actually cared?

For all his words, Draco knew he wasn't heartless, or even particularly cold. He simply masked it well. Still, for him to be visibly concerned for Harry, when he'd seemed largely impartial to just about anyone except his Slytherins, and even then only minimally. Yes, shocked was the more appropriate term.

But Severus wasn't finished. He seemed to have turned in upon himself, contemplating, and spoke in a near whisper. "It took time, yes, for me to look past the memory of him but… the boy is still her son."

When Draco left moments later, it was to the distant and brooding bowed head of his godfather. Severus' final words rung echoing in his ears. Curiosity was a wondrous thing, and as ever, Draco found himself mulling over more questions than had been answered.


	7. Breaking the Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Second chapter in as many days! Woohoo! I felt it almost necessary since the previous chapter was sort of shorter and it had been a while.
> 
> Also, WARNING: this chapter contains depictions of sexual situations, as well as references to past non-consensual acts. More importantly I think, if you have a problem with reading rape recovery fics, due to experience of just natural skepticism, I'd tread carefully. I understand that everyone experiences trauma recovery differently and I would hate to offend if my description seemed crass or unbelievable, for whatever reason. If I have offended anyone, I'm really really sorry. It wasn't my intention at all.
> 
> Otherwise, hope you enjoy.

Amelie gave a flutter of her fingers, waving in farewell as Harry stepped out of her shop into the cool evening. The bell overhead tinkled merrily with his passage, a birdsong chime that resounded with the ambiance of the scene. The sun had nearly disappeared below the horizon, bathing _Rivierie Ville_ in a deep red glow. Darkness was falling earlier and earlier as winter encroached upon the Pyrenees; deeply into December as they were, Harry found himself wrapped in a scarf and thick jumper despite the lack of snow.

"Well, I wish you a very Merry Christmas, Harry."

Turning towards Socorro standing alongside him, Harry offered her a bright smile and nodded, returning the sentiment. "And thank you, as always."

"Not at all," Socorro replied, shaking her head, her own mellow smile spreading across her face. "I'm simply glad that you're feeling more confident for the holiday break. Remember, though we haven't any sessions booked, should you need the support I am always available for booking an urgent session or a spurr of the moment Floo exchange. On the other hand, correspondence by letters, should you feel it would be of benefit, is also an alternative."

Harry bowed his head, accepting the offer of support despite his urge to wave off the suggestion and assure her he would be fine. If he'd learnt anything over the past few weeks, the past few months, it was that the simple act of talking to Socorro provided an immense relief. Draco had even gone so far as to comment on the fact; apparently the effects were visible. "I'll bear that in mind. Thank you, again."

Socorro's smile broadened. It felt as delightful as it did embarrassing to see her so genuinely gladdened by Harry's acceptance. Far be it from the distant and formal relationship Harry had anticipated, he felt remarkably comfortable with the psychologist. She was almost like a very learned, very supportive friend. He hadn't expected that at all. And yet, unlike a friend, she was always seeking to urge him into furthering his treatment, into challenging himself with both little things and…

"If you please, consider what I've suggested about your family. I will not repeat my own stance on the matter – we've been through this – and I respect your wishes to not immediately push charges." She kept her tone low, despite there being not a soul in the vicinity who could overhear them. A slight dampening of her smile bespoke sincere sadness at the matter, yet her ever-present understanding persisted. "However, I think it would be beneficial to your recovery to further reconsider how you view them."

Yes. Socorro also seemed to urge confrontation of the big things too.

The big topics had gradually clambered to the surface, presenting themselves at the forefront of Harry's discussions with the psychologist. From working through the aversive issue of the death of Voldemort – a memory that still at times caused him to flinch even after such intense work in the area – to Harry's relationship with Draco and difficulties that surrounded their situation, Socorro seemed to consider them all on par in terms of importance.

The topic of the Dursleys, and of Stephen Defaux, had naturally arisen too, elbowing its way to to forefront of their conversations like a particularly demanding child. It had been a controversial subject since Harry had first managed to strangle out a broken recitation of his memories concerning the matter. For the first time in the sessions he held with Socorro, the witch had actually shown a flicker of emotion. The room was too dark to completely discern its nature, but she looked almost angry. It was a strange expression on her otherwise sedate face.

Far be it from the emotional strain of reliving the trauma, Harry had found that finally voicing his experience had been almost… liberating. He never would have expected that. Oh, there had been tears, and at one point he'd fallen victim to sheer hysteria, something that he would never have anticipated, had never experienced before. Socorro had to send word to the school in that instance, such had been his debilitation. Harry was relieved when it was only Tali with a struggling Lyssy and a floundering Neville who arrived, escorted by the Resident Spokeswoman Bernadette who had significantly mellowed over the months since school had begun. And though he had cringed with guilt and humiliation at the turn of events, he was similarly thankful when Neville had somehow contacted Draco. With almost superhuman speed Draco had raced to Harry's side and hadn't left to return back to Scotland until he'd ascertained Harry could cope at least marginally without his presence. By the end of his short visit, Harry wasn't exactly sure who was reassuring whom. Draco seemed more upset by the incident than he was.

The whole ordeal had been horribly embarrassing, though Harry could barely summon the energy to blush shamefully. His emotional weariness bordered on exhaustion. After that, Socorro suggested they meet twice a week, at least until the vividness of Harry's recollections eased.

When they had eased – for painful though they still were, they had – Socorro had presented her suggestion. Pressing charges had not even crossed Harry's mind as a possibility. He didn't want to associate with the Durselys again. At all. As for Stephen Defaux… well, Harry had argued with deliberate civility with Draco over visiting the man who had been his guardian. It had been a long and verbose 'discussion' over the summer holidays, but eventually Draco had agreed that if Harry truly wanted to visit the man then he would come with him. Harry couldn't really explain the desire to simply see the man; he didn't really understand it himself. Any accompanying emotions surrounding the figure that had 'cared' for him for five years were deep and murky and a riot of jumbled stressors.

Stephen Defaux was a shell of a man. Insane, Draco called him, and though he didn't particularly like the word itself, Harry had to agree, at least in sentiment. He was installed in long-term care at a rehabilitation centre, though a quiet word from an open-faced attendant upon arrival indicated that 'rehabilitation' was a loosely applied label. The patients rarely left. When Harry saw his old guardian for the first time in six months, he'd had been rendered mute. Stephen was wasted, sallow skinned and nearly hidden beneath a patchy beard and loose-fitting patient's gown. He'd barely raised his gaze at the two boys when they'd entered, and even then there was not a glimmer of recognition.

Harry hadn't been able to adequately sort through the tangle of emotions that had coursed through him. There was confusion, an upwelling of nervousness, an almost terror that was oddly detached. Yet there was also apprehension that paradoxically contrasted a feeling of relief, and most surprisingly of all there was… loss.

Loss, but not sadness at the loss. That much Harry could discern. He couldn't quite understand it, but… yes, it felt like loss. The pillar that had been the centre of his world for years was gone and though it left only a blessed freedom, hollowness remained. It was disconcerting, and he and Draco had hastily left the room.

Draco had asked the questions. Asked what exactly was wrong with the man. Stephen's attendant, a homely, middle-aged woman with a kind, round face, had only shaken her head and shrugged.

"Your guess is as good as mine. Symptoms suggest that he may be suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, though it is unknown what has induced it. At times, his responses indicate he may have developed mild schizophrenic, but…" She paused, glancing towards the half-opened door into Stephen's brightly sun-lit room. A flicker of thoughtfulness brushed across her features. "How did you say you knew him again?"

They'd left quickly after that with a muttered excuse and a garbled explanation of "cousin's step-son's aunt" or some such. And Harry had forcibly shoved the lingering remains of his old guardian from his mind; he didn't want to see the man again.

And yet, dusted of Stephen as Harry was – at least in terms of direct confrontation – Socorro maintained her concern. For the mentally debilitated Defaux as well as the Dursleys. She never pushed when Harry cringed from her suggestions, but he was always aware that they were there, loitering on the outskirts of every discussion. Their most recent session, another two hours of talking that Harry had become unexpectedly comfortable with, had involved a lot of consideration for the Dursleys. As far as Socorro was concerned, Harry shouldn't – and likely couldn't – leave the situation as it was.

Harry was ambivalent to the matter and so simply wore her suggestions silently. As they stood outside of Amelie's Mediwares and Potions, he hoped his uneasiness on the matter was hidden by the stretching shadows of night. He managed to nod with a feeble smile at her reminder. "I'll think about it."

"Then that's all I can ask for." Socorro's smile was back two-fold, the concerned thoughtfulness replaced by her gentle kindliness. "I'll be seeing you in January, then, if not before."

They departed with a final wave, the magical green polish on Socorro's nails flashing with every tilt of her fingers. Harry turned along the now familiar route towards Beauxbatons Academy and made his slow, wandering way up the hill.

* * *

 

"What I just don't understand is why they changed her name to Mary Poppins? It's not like any of the Muggles would have known she was a real witch or anything." Tali frowned thoughtfully as she stepped out of the _vent tuyaux_. "Anyway, Poppenjack isn't even that different from Poppins."

Harry smiled at his friend as they departed the shade of Beauxbatons Academy. Tali had been having an animated discussion with herself – and the long-suffering _Professeur_ Gueguen – all afternoon, ever since the topic in _Histoire de Magie_ had turned to theatrical interpretations of witchcraft and wizardary. They'd recently moved onto the history of Wizard-Muggle relations and Harry had been surprised to discover that the loveable sixties movie character was in fact based on a real-life witch. He had to wonder at the author Travers and Walt Disney both after that. "I think it's probably to protect the privacy of the Madame Poppenjack. They do that with movies."

"But Poppenjack as a surname isn't even that unusual," Tali rebuffed pointedly.

"Maybe not with wizards, but in the Muggle world I think Poppins is probably more common."

Tali shook her head, muttering under her breath at the extremes of the Muggle entertainment industry. Harry listened with only half an ear, standing on his toes briefly to peer down the hill along the winding path dotted with students and trailing trunks that headed towards the carriages. It was the first day of the Christmas holidays and they were supposed to meet Neville before departing. Aime was heading straight south rather then by-passing Paris so had likely left already.

As they approached the muted chatter of waiting students, Harry saw a dirty-blonde mop wading towards them through the sea of hatted heads. Despite the coolness of the weather, Neville still refused to wear the berets that were a part of their uniform. Harry didn't bother calling out – Neville wouldn't hear him anyway. Nudging a still mumbling Tali, he directed them towards their friend.

"About time, you two," Neville called with a grin as he noticed their approach, weaving more purposefully towards their fellow students.

At an indignant tap on his ankle, Harry stooped to scoop Lyssy from the danger of being trampled. "Sorry, Lyssy was with the –"

"Giant koi? Again?"

Harry smiled indulgently at the little cat in his arms. Though he couldn't communicate with her like he used to be able to, her emotions were writ clearly in her half-lidded eyes. Utter self-satisfaction.

"It's only a natural progression, really," Tali explained to Neville practically. "She's a cat. It would surely be stranger for her to repress her hunting instincts. To avoid the deterioration into stereotypic behaviours and potential depression, it's crucial for animals to be able to express their normal behaviours."

"Depression?" Neville repeated incredulously, which naturally led Tali into a long-winded explanation of mammalian mental disorders. She certainly could talk, despite that the quite buzz of her voice would indicate she was anything but a chatterbox to an unwary stranger.

Harry listened with his now-practiced half attention, offering a small, commiserating smile to Neville before leading his friends through the slowly roiling body of students filing into the carriage bay.

Scanning through the weaving bodies for Jean, Harry turned at the sound of his name being called. A young dark-haired youth with a prominent brow and a fuzz of hair sprouting from his chin trotted towards him with a grin spreading wide across his face. He offered a half-wave of greeting to Tali and Neville, which was returned with distraction and relief respectively.

" _Salut_ , Giles. I didn't know you were working today."

Giles beamed wider. He was an affable fellow, exceptionally friendly, and though he only worked every other week at the Pegasus stables of Beauxbatons he was a familiar and welcome face amongst the students. Especially to those that volunteered to work with the magical creatures as Harry and Tali chose to.

" _Ouais_ , Jean couldn't work today so he called me in a favour. Had to get up at the crack of dawn to make it here by eight, I tell you." The breadth of his smile suggested the early rise didn't leave him any worse for wear.

Tali finally seemed drawn from her muted tirade and sidled up to Harry's side. "Did he have to leave for the foaling? He mentioned yesterday that Magnolia looked about ready. Is he keeping her on site at the Bordeaux Paddocks? Will he bring her and the foal to the school or are they staying off campus? Please tell him to bring the foal to the academy."

As always, Giles looked faintly bemused and more than a little overwhelmed with Tali's verbal onslaught. "Erm… I think you might be right. I'm not entirely sure. He was sort of in a hurry." He gave a rueful laugh. "I'll pass on the message if I see Jean before you do." He paused as Tali nodded shortly, satisfied with the explanation, and allowed her questions to be quelled momentarily. "Anyway, did you folks want me to drive you back? You're all headed towards Paris, yes?"

"Would you?" Neville chimed in, eagerness making his lean forward and clap Giles on the shoulder heartily. "That would be great! Harry said Jean'd promised he'd take us, but I guess that's not going to happen."

Giles looked faintly surprised at Neville's easy-going approach, eyes flickering to his shoulder before he overlooked the friendly gesture. Harry was somewhat relieved by the his following assurance and continued enthusiasm as he shepherded them towards the gradually filling carriages. He'd come to the realisation that, in an ironic similarity to his own aversion, French wizards and witches rarely partook in physical contact save for a customary _faire la bise_ upon occasion. The only exception seemed to be between family and close friends. Giles had only met Neville once, so it was a show of his easy-going nature that he didn't immediately turn a cold shoulder at the familiarity. Far from it, in fact, as with that naturalness that Neville possessed, the pair fell into friendly chatter. Harry couldn't contain a hint of pride as he noted detachedly just how adept Neville had become at French, both in culture and speech, over the course of a few short months.

The carriage Giles lead them to was already seating a pair of third year girls who accepted their company easily enough as the three fifth years clambered aboard. Giles, with skill gained from experience, deftly hefted their trunks into the boot of the carriage and disappeared momentarily in search of Pegasus. He returned minutes later leading a pair of nearly white geldings that Harry recognised as being siblings, hitched them to the carriage, and within moments set their small party into motion.

It was a surreal feeling, leaving the Beauxbatons for the first time. Or for the first extended time, anyway. As Harry gazed out of the small back window, catching a final glimpse of the palace he realised that he had truly quite enjoyed his months at his new school. Despite the lacking presence of Draco, it was comfortable. He didn't know if it was due simply to the predominant use of French as the first language or a result of being distanced from Hogwarts and the memories that it entailed, but could hardly deny the reality. What he did know was that a big part of it had been the presence of Neville and Tali, even Aime, Melody, Magdalane, and, on frequent occasions, Christophe and Eloise.

It was odd that the support of people he had once hardly known – and several of which he only developed a friendly companionability with – could so settle him. Harry was a realist enough to know that his history had been nothing if not minimalistic in terms of social interactions. It had been a surprise at Hogwarts when so many people had attempted to befriend him and when Draco had explained Narcissa's hypothesis of his apparent accidental magic 'attracting' attention, he had been disconsolate but not particularly surprised. It would make sense that some magical phenomenon was afoot to entice their interest. It wasn't as though he actively elicited it himself.

What he did find surprising, however, was that, when he had overcome the initial discomfort of simply being around people for so much of his day, it had become almost… comfortable. There was Draco, of course, who Harry felt as at ease with as he did Lyssy, which was truly saying something, but even Hermione, Blaise and Ron had always been a welcoming presence. Pansy… Harry missed her deeply, even with the knowledge that had she still been alive he would hardly be seeing her more frequently. Her loss sat like a physical wound in his chest that made itself known at the slightest thought. Picking delicately at the feelings to further his understanding of them, Harry came to the realisation of just how much his life had changed over the course of a year and a half, and not only because of magic. There were people he cared about, people he wanted to spend time with, in preference of his self-imposed isolation.

Harry never would have thought he would actively desire the company of others. Maybe he had been lonely and hadn't realised it?

It still baffled him at times, that he had come to rely upon people so quickly. Harry had never relied on anyone before, and yet that had all changed just last Christmas when, barely concious and crumpled to the path-side in Paris' metropolitan, he had been awakened by the terrified voice of Draco. That image, of Draco's pale face and wide eyes, his voice muffled by the mugginess of Harry's mind, would stay with him forever.

 _Thank God it's Christmas. We might get a week less of break than Hogwarts students, but still, that's two weeks together. Two whole weeks_! Harry knew Tali watched him with barely suppressed amusement as he fought to control the excitement he'd hitherto witheld from spreading across his face. He didn't really care. His enthusiasm only grew with every moment of travel, even when the nearly-four hour trip seem to take significantly longer than the predicted four hours.

Disembarking in the underground carriage bay in _Le Cachee Labyrinthe_ , Harry, Tali and Neville offered Giles their gratitude and a smattering of well-wishes for the holiday break. Giles replied in kind, calling to them boisterously that he would be more than happy to cart them back on the return trip should they desire as much.

Parking their trunks at a distance from the parked carriages and stamping Pegsus, the sporadic calls from grooms and carriage drivers both as they directed incoming arrivals every which way, Neville sighed heartily. He grinned towards his two friends and Harry didn't think he needed a genius to predict his next words.

"Well, not that this hasn't been fun, but I have places I need to be. You know, sights to see, people to talk to."

"Oh? I thought Ginny was still in Belgium, meeting that scout. What was his name…?" Tali picked at her teeth in the way she did when she was adopting false thoughtfulness. Her façade wasn't entirely fool proof, however; Harry noticed the small quivering of her lips that told of the beginnings of a smile.

Neville blinked at the French girl in surprise. "How did you know Ginny was in Belgium?" He paused, then frowned. "And I never even said I was meeting Ginny."

"I know, Neville, because I listen. Eyes peeled, ears open, you know the drill." She dropped the act, smiling widely.

"But I never said anything…"

"Don't worry, Neville," Harry consoled him. "Tali just sort of knows things. You probably just haven't been on the receiving end of it that often so haven't noticed. I wouldn't think on it too much."

Neville continued to frown at Tali, who only replied with an overly bright smile. "Ri-ght. Well, anyway, no, as a matter of fact, she came back from Belgium early."

"Oh dear. Did it end badly?"

"No, not really. At least Ginny seemed to think the bloke thought she was pretty good. But I'm meeting her for lunch, so I'm going to head off." Stooping, he hefted his trunk to standing. "Harry, I'll probably drop by to see you some time after Christmas, yeah?"

Harry nodded. "Sure. Sirius says you're always welcome. Are you going to be in England for most of the break?"

Neville returned the nod, though with an accompanying grimace. "Yeah, Gran wanted me to come back and stay with her for Christmas. Says she wanted to make sure I'm not getting 'brainwashed by those stuck-up French pillocks'." He glanced hastily towards Tali. "Her words, I swear. No offence from me intended, Tali."

Offering a consoling pat to Neville's shoulder, Tali seemed to struggle around a smirk before she replied. "None taken, Neville. Still, at least you'll get to see all your old friends again."

"Yeah, that'll be good." The thought seemed to brighten Neville's outlook once more. His grin returned. "I think I'll probably be able to convince Gran to let me stay with Ron for most of the time. He's a respectable pureblood, you know."

Tali snorted at that, rolling her eyes and muttering something about the stupidity of those that clung to the old ways. There followed a brief exchange of farewells before Neville, manhandling his trunk with excessive awkwardness, Apparated from the spot.

"Come on then, my little kittens, we also have places to be." Tali, grinning, looped her arm through Harry's and scrunched her nose at him in a grin. He stared at her flatly – ever since she'd overheard Sirius' reference to him as 'kitten', his friend had been taken with the term of endearment – but conceded and Apparated them both from the sidelines of the Pegasus bay with a crack.

The Parisian International Portkey Terminal was remarkably similar to its English counterpart. A wide room, grand yet paradoxically unassuming, it held nothing save a long receptionist's desk and the seemingly random potplants placed either side of the doors. Polished floors varied only in their checkerboard pattern in contrast to the gleaming white of those in London. The primary difference appeared to be the significant discrepancy in individuals queuing to get their tickets stamped and directed to their departure room. Harry had grown somewhat familiar with the building, enough that he nodded at two of the three receptionists in greeting; he knew their faces at least, if not their names.

"What time is your portkey set to leave?" Harry asked, urging Tali out of the thoroughfare of the double doorway and dragging their trunks behind them. As they pulled to a standing station alongside the wall, Lyssy dutifully clambered atop his trunk tail twitching and eyes narrowing as she dutifully observed each figure that passed by.

"Ah, not for another twenty minutes, or thereabouts."

"Did you want to check in?"

Tali gave him a cryptic smile. "Not just yet. I think I'll stick around for a bit longer."

Harry frowned. "I still don't understand why you didn't just take one of the carriages straight to Spain rather than coming through Paris. You're spending Christmas with Viviette in Spain, aren't you? You know there was nearly as many carriages going to Madrid as to Paris."

"Yes, but Kitten," Tali dropped her chin, raising her eyebrows pointedly, "I'm not going to be seeing you all Christmas. This is the only chance I'll get."

"Chance for what?" Harry replied, frowning confusedly and with just a hint of foreboding. But Tali only shook her head and turned her attention to scanning her surroundings, as though searching for something. At the sight of his friend's hawk-like gaze, Harry felt his own attention shift, questions dying. And his thoughts fell into familiar territory.

Draco. Draco was coming, would arrive at any moment. Harry's partner had already been on holidays for a week, but had remained with Narcissa throughout that time as a compromise for spending the rest of his break with Harry. In France.

Draco wsa going to spend Harry's whole holidays with him. _In France_. The thought sent a jitter of excitement through him that had him nearly starting excitedly with every witch or wizard that entered the entrance hall from the doors leading the departure rooms.

So it was with little surprise, despite how uncharacteristic Harry knew it to be, that when the tall, slender blonde stepped through the swinging doors that Harry nearly flew as he launched himself across the room. Draco barely had a moment to raise his arms before Harry crashed into him, arms wrapping tightly around his waist in a crushing embrace. Barely a moment later he felt arms envelope him in turn and was pressed even more closely to Draco's chest.

Warm. So warm. And comfortable. Harry pressed his eyes closed and drew in a deep breath, the smell of the cologne Draco had taken to wearing curling into his nostrils. He knew for a fact that a the musky scent cost more than Harry spent on shampoo in an entire year. They'd discussed its necessity at length, though a myriad of giggles and affronted exclamations. At that moment, Harry didn't care for the expense. It was familiar.

 _And it's only been a week since I saw him. I'm acting so desperate._ And yet, even recognising it as a truth, the thought didn't cause Harry to loosen his arms even a fraction.

They probably would have stayed as such, wrapped in each other's embrace indefinitely had a traveler not nearly barrelledd into them in his haste to depart the building. They exchanged a sheepish grin before Draco drew Harry from the direct line of passage

Out of the way once more, Draco drew him into a one-armed hug. "Happy Holidays. It's about time you finished up."

Harry snorted, gently prodding him in the ribs. It barely elicited a grunt. "Don't criticise my educational institution, Draco. Envy is petty."

"It's hardly envy. Tiresome as it is to admit, Hogwarts is more than satisfactory. If anything, the very fact that you finish studies a full year later is indication enough. Although, I have to admit," Draco leaned away from him slightly, peering down at Harry in appreciative assessment, "it does have it's perks."

Feeling a flush rise in his cheeks, Harry dropped his chin. Draco had never made any attempt to hide his approval of Beauxbatons' uniform. The first time the students of Hogwarts had surprised their friends with a visit to Paris – all thoroughly prepared and approved with the Hogwarts Headmistress by a meticulous Hermione – Ron had nearly fallen from his chair. He and Blaise had taken great delight in prodding at a blushingly embarrased Neville as they exclaimed over what a splendid fop he made. Neville had cursed long and fluently, swearing that he would never leave the Academy grounds in his uniform again.

In an attempt to divert the attention from himself – for really, Ron and Blaise were being exceptionally long-winded in their expressions of gloating amusement – Neville had jerked his thumb at Harry. With a sardonic smile, he exclaimed, "Well, I may look like an idiot, but we have our resident French student here who actually wears it properly. See, you're supposed to look like a little doll. _Ressemble à une poupée, non_?" He smirked self-satisfyingly, the attention diverted from himself. "I'm just far too English to pull it off."

After that, the name had stuck. Ron and Blaise had called Harry nothing but a ' _poupée'_ for the rest of the weekend; his diminutive height did nothing to help the matter, even when Neville assured him he was a 'nice' doll, unlike those creepy bisque figurines that lined the windows of the pâtisserie in _Rivierie Ville_. He was only mollified when Draco had wrapped him in a hug and tugged idly on his beret, whispering, "I happen to quite like it, you know. There's no reason to feel bashful about looking good. Neville's just jealous he can't quite pull it off." And dubious as Harry was to his claim, he had felt somewhat mollified.

Hence, Draco had encouraged him to wear his uniform at any given opportunity. More than that, as though he'd undergone an epiphany of sorts, Draco seemed to take it upon himself to re-outfit Harry with a new wardrobe. Harry couldn't really complain, though he did find it excessive and unnecessary. He'd never had much by way of fashion sense and couldn't profess a sudden interest particularly. But it seemed to make Draco happy to wear that which he'd bought – or requested Harry buy, as he would resolutely refuse to be showered in gifts willy-nilly – so he could hardly refuse.

As it was, Draco was tugging idly at his beret, a fond smile on his face that Harry was fairly certain he didn't realise he wore – he wouldn't be caught dead wearing it in public otherwise – when Tali wandered towards them. Harry could pinpoint the exact moment Draco noticed her presence for the aloof, slightly derogatory mask that slipped like a glove upon his face.

Harry took a step away from Draco, glancing between his two friends. It was the first time they had met, all of Draco's previous visits occurring off-campus. Though he had spoken to both of them about each other at length, he felt an unexpected nervousness well up within him.

"Um… Tali, this is Draco. Draco, Tali. I'm sure I've told you enough about each other to…" He trailed off, taking another small step away from Draco. It was impossible not to; the tension in the air was thick enough to be sliced and diced. Tali's golden eyes, though on a markedly lower level due to her shorter height, were locked with Draco's grey in what appeared to be a battle of sorts. Harry would not have been unsurprised to see sparks fly. Literally, given the inclusion of magic.

"Um, what's…?"

Neither Draco nor Tali indicated they heard Harry's half-formed query. It was morbidly fascinating to watch, though a little intimidating. Harry felt as though he watched two wild animals having a face off of sorts. He couldn't fathom exactly what it was about, but felt too nervous to attempt another question.

Draco was the first to break the silence. With deliberate slowness, he held out his hand and spoke in clipped English. "Draco Malfoy, Eldest Son and Heir of the Malfoy Family, currently a seventh year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Harry stared blankly at his partner, struggling not to gape. What was all that about? Why was he acting so formal and -?

"Nataliha Jarvour, Second Eldest of the Jarvour Family, fourth generation Half-Blood and proud to be. At present a fifth form student of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic." She spoke in her usual quiet, lilting tone, an innocent, as she slipped her little fingers into Draco's. There was nothing innocent about the grin that flashed her faintly crooked teeth however; it looked more predatory than friendly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Malfoy."

Naturally, she spoke entirely in French.

Harry had to bite back a sigh. Of course neither Draco nor Tali would back down to a potential confrontation, Draco for his pride and Tali for the sheer thrill of the challenge. Conceding to use the other's first language was asking too much, it would seem. Harry couldn't quite hide a cringe at the exchange, though it went unnoticed by the pair as they finished their hand shake and settled back to staring at one another. The tense silence ensued once more. Harry could have sworn a silent conversation passed between the two who were, effectively, little more than stangers.

_This is awkward. God, this is so awkward, I think I'm going to melt into the ground. I should have seen this coming… Of course that's why Tali stuck around instead of booking in at the check-in. She always said she was looking forward to meeting Draco. So awkward, so awkward…_

It was Draco who finally broke the staring battle. Surprising, that. Harry would have assumed him too proud to offer any leniency. Yet even more surprising was that when he spoke it all in French. Not quite fluid, but certainly understandable. "It's a pleasure to meet you finally, _Madamoiselle_ Jarvour. I've heard so much about you. Harry claims you are an absolute delight." If there was an edge to the words… well, that was simply Draco.

The battle seemed to reach its conclusion at that point. A slow smile spread across Tali's face; not that predatory smirk but a genuine smile that crinkled her nose. More noteworthy was the fact that she replied – mostly – in English. " _S'il te plait_ , call me Tali. And ze pleasure is all mine, Mr Malfoy. I've similarly been most eager to meet you. My dear friend 'Arry frequently assaults me with favourable anecdotes regarding yourself. I feel as zough I know you already."

Her own words were markedly less stilted than Draco's despite the thickness of her accent, and the broadening smile said she knew it. Harry had to cover his face with a hand, hiding his flush. He had a moment to regret his long-lost ability to appear unaffected by his emotions before embarrassment nearly overwhelmed him. Of course, everything has to be a competition.

"I assure you, I feel the same, Tali. And similarly, call me Draco. I feel that such formality would be rather uncouth given the circumstances."

As one, Draco and Tali turned towards Harry. Peering between his fingers, Harry flickered his gaze between the two of them warily. "What?"

In eerie synchrony, the pair adopted twin smirks. It was disconcerting to behold an expression so similar on such different faces. He hadn't considered them to be all that alike until that moment. _Maybe that's why I like them both so much. And find them both so frustrating at the moment!_

But the worst appeared to be over. After a short exchange of words – in English, thankfully, for Draco's sake – Tali made a show of casting a Tempus Charm and huffed her regret that she was to leave.

"Vivi will be very upset with me if I'm late," she sighed, approaching Harry. He barely got a chance to glimpse the teasing glint in her eye before she leaned in and gave him a sequence of cheek kisses. " _À bientôt_ , Kitten. I doubt I'll be seeing you before school starts back again. Be sure to write me, now." And after dropping briefly into a crouch to scratch Lyssy's head as Harry's familiar coiled around his ankles, she spelled her trunk with a Follow Me Charm and lined up with her fellow travellers at the reception desk.

Draco slipped an arm around Harry as they watched her leave, returning her bright wave as she passed through the doors to the inner building. As soon as she disappeared from sight, Harry tipped his head up towards Draco and gave him a pointed stare. "Exactly what was that all about?" Draco only smirked, dropping a kiss to his forehead. Harry scowled. "Draco…"

"Nothing to worry about, Harry, nothing at all." He dropped his arm from his half-hug and spelled Harry's trunk with its own Follow Me Charm. Slipping his hand into Harry's, he gave him an amused smile as they began to head towards the exit. "You know, though, I think I may just like this Tali."

"Oh really? So glad you approve." Harry rolled his eyes, ensuring that Draco didn't miss the sarcasm.

"Thank you." Draco's smile became quizzical for a moment. "And correct me if I'm wrong, but did she just call you kitten?"

Harry could only managed to half smother his groan. He suddenly realised he probably should have been more worried about his two friends' meeting than he had been. It could have gone worse, but it surely could have gone much better.

Draco sighed blissfully as he slumped back onto the duvet, propping his head up on the pillow. "Well, it might have been different to last Christmas, but I still quite enjoyed myself. Even with Sirius around."

Harry smiled, noting the use of his godfather's first name in one of countless instances that night. Draco had conceded – finally – to drop the formality of calling Sirius 'Black' and with it had dropped some of their mutual wariness around each other. Some, though admittedly not all. Slipping his shoes off at the end of the bed, Harry crawled up the length of the mattress. Draco spread his legs in a cradle and he slipped himself in between them, nestling with his arms folded across Draco's chest. "I'm glad. Though are you sure you didn't want to go and see you mother? If you wanted, tomorrow we could…"

Draco waved his hand lazily. "No, it's fine. She assured me that she was spending most of of the Christmas break between social gatherings anyway." He smirked, lips curling sardonically. "Besides, Severus assured me he'd be her escort for just about all of them."

"Escort?" Harry felt his own smile widen. "Am I to assume then?" Draco wriggled more comfortably into the thick duvet and stack of far too many pillows. Harry had to wonder at their excess; like everything else in the modest yet open bedroom Sirius had afforded him, the surplus seemed to be driven by a constant fear that any want that should tickle Harry's fancy would not be met. Harry had accepted it gratefully, but had to say something when Sirius had wanted to install surround sound to accompany an already far too large entertainment system _in the bedroom_. Not that he didn't appreciate the sentiment, but it really was unnecessary. "I think it would be fairly safe to assume as much. Severus spends more time with her than I do."

"I'm happy for her, then. If that's what Narcissa wants." "From what I've seen, it seems to be." Draco's faded slightly, becoming thoughtful. "I like this Anouk that Sirius has set himself up with, too. She seems to have a decent head on her shoulders."

Harry hummed his agreement into Draco's chest. "I'll let Sirius know your thoughts. I'm sure he'd be relieved to hear she meets your approval."

"Yes, you do that," his partner replied, grin spreading widely once more.

Anouk was a kindly young woman – Draco said too young for Sirius, but Harry didn't altogether think so – and seemed to be about as besotted with Sirius as he was with her. A golden haired daughter of a Ministry official, she seemed to live life to the fullest in much the same way that Sirius did. Free, enjoying life, living in the moment with no strings attached. Except that, in this instance, there appeared to be quite a few strings attaching and knotting rather firmly. It was an indication of just how well they cleaved together that their relationship had spanned for a solid two months now, nearly twice as long as Harry had known Sirius to embroil himself in before. Yes, besotted was quite an accurate description; every letter Harry received from his godfather was another proclamation of his adoration for the witch.

Yet even aside from the fact that Anouk so obviously made Sirius happy, Harry found that he quite liked the woman too. She was friendly, had a bubbly sense of humour, and seemed able to tame Sirius' wildness without smothering it completely. Of course, such an approach would be counter productive as she seemed to stray towards the wild side herself quite distinctly, if Sirius' words were any indication.

"I like her too," he murmured quietly, head turning to rest his ear on Draco's chest. The steady thump of a heartbeat, the warmth pervading even through his jumper, was just so comfortable. Whatever uneasiness had arisen between them briefly those months ago from Harry's first revisit to Hogsmeade had long since passed, leaving only something stronger in its wake. As the proverb said, that which wasn't killed would only be made stronger. He felt his eyes droop closed as fingers grazed through his hair, stroking lightly through the ever-present tangles. They tugged idly on his ear lobe and Draco's chest rose briefly in a sigh of contentment.

"You know, I think I like these ones more than the other ones I got you." He tugged lightly on the apatite earring hooped through Harry's ear. "They match your eyes better."

Harry turned his head so his chin propped instead in the centre of Draco's chest. "Is that so?"

"Yes. And I take full credit for just how perfectly matching they are, too."

Harry felt his smile widen once more, and didn't bother reprimanding the assumption. Draco had been so content with his gift that Harry could only love it, even had it not filled him with joy at the prospect of being able to converse with Lyssy once more. It had made his own gift seem somewhat inadequate, though Draco had exclaimed nostalgically that the simple chain of interwoven white gold links was exactly the same as the one he'd pointed out a year ago in _Rue de Mervilles_. As if Harry didn't remember exactly.

"You know," Harry murmured, pondering and tilting his head to gaze up at Draco, "you still need to form that bond with your mother."

"Bond?" Draco peered down his chest towards Harry, running his fingers through his hair once more. "The Bond of Eternity?"

"Mmm."

A small but delighted smile settled upon Draco's face. "That I do. It takes a good few months to set everything up, though, so I was considering doing it after my N.E. . I'd like to get my apprenticeship sorted before everything… I still don't know what's going to happen in terms of living quarters next year, if I get an English master."

Harry nodded his understanding. He hid it well, his tone free of worry, but Harry could tell Draco was positively bursting for want of a response from one of the Masters he'd sent applications to in hopes to apprentice under them in the coming year. He knew Draco desperately wanted to work under Dorrick, even more so than the elusive yet starkly unique French Master, Calvinn Burisque. He didn't say anything, however. There was no need to point out the obvious. "Have you asked her yet?"

Draco shook his head. "No. I will, just not yet. I mean…" He paused, thumbing the side of his nose awkwardly. "We've gotten somewhat fonder of one another these past few months, but I'm still unsure as to how she'd respond to such a request."

Harry felt a smirk straining at his lips. "Somewhat fonder?"

"Quiet, you."

They both shook in muted laughter before subsiding into an easy silence. It was calming to simply revel in one another's presence.

It was quiet and comfortable, warm and lulling, to be wrapped both in one another and in the warmth of the room. Sirius had suggested to Harry that they sleep in separate bedrooms at first. Well, it was more of a plea than a suggestion. He had subsided, however, beneath Harry's hesitant request for otherwise and Draco's point-blank refusal. Harry was grateful for the speed of his godfather's acceptance. He hadn't really expected him to cave to fast; Sirius was so protective, almost aggressively so at times, and his relationship with Draco was tenuous at best. Draco maintained it was due to the discord that still stank pungently between their families, but Sirius rebutted with the belief that it was simply a matter of him disliking the 'snooty little arse'. But at least in this instance, the sole remaining member of the Black family alleviated his pride for once and bowed to the request of his godchild. Harry felt it had been almost painful to watch.

Still, he couldn't regret forcing Sirius to make the decision. He'd grown used to sleeping without Draco, but that didn't mean he simply liked it. It was necessary, that was all. Any chance to share a bed was grasped desperately with both hands.

Draco had asked, at first, if Harry really wanted to continue such a sleeping arrangement. Harry had been mortified nearly to tears. Draco had to, at great length and with gushing backtracking, reassured him that it wasn't that he didn't _want_ to sleep with Harry as such but that he thought that Harry would prefer some distancing. Draco had been persistently careful, almost to the point of frustrating. Any contact between them was strictly platonic save for short chaste kisses. Or it had been until Harry had finally, with great exasperation, told Draco to stop being a twit.

"But I… I just don't want to hurt you."

Harry could still remember the slight crack in his voice, the sadness, almost fear, in his eyes. _I've caused this. It's my fault._ Yet Harry struggled against spilling forth such an exclamation, fought against apologising profusely. Socorro had reassured him time and time again that no, it wasn't his 'fault'. That no one, Draco least of all people, would blame him for any hesitancy he would have with intimacy. That it was natural after trauma to experience reluctance to tread near potential triggers.

That was one area of Harry's sessions with his psychologist that, when he had finally been able to voice it in the open, he'd been adamant about pursuing. He made it as clear as possible that the primary goal, that which he wished to work towards in his recovery most ardently, was to be able to reciprocate, to nurture and grow in his relationship with Draco. It had been frightfully embarrassing to confess as much – Harry always felt himself flush upon remembering his ardent confession – but that made it no less true.

Socorro hadn't been sceptical. She hadn't been condescending – of course she hadn't – but neither had she encouraged him to shy away from contact for fear of provoking a nervous response. She said that habituating, of a sorts, was one of the most common approaches to overcoming any kind of trauma or phobia. And if intimacy was what Harry truly wanted, then she saw it as a great approach to confronting his past and progressing from it.

It had been a strange reversal of roles after Harry had made his decision. He was firmly grounded in it after discussing it bashfully with Socorro; if he wanted to share a physical relationship with Draco, then to hell with tiptoeing around his traumas. He'd bloody well have it. It was Draco that was the hesitant one. He seemed to treat Harry as though he was made of glass, and though Harry was constantly reassured by the love he saw in his partner's eyes, Draco so rarely acted upon it save for a gentle kiss, a tender embrace or soft touches that barely grazed the skin. It had been odd, yet somehow… enthralling, to be the one to initiate further intimacy.

Harry found that in such instances, somehow, he rarely felt the looming panic, the flooding cascade of memories. The fear. It was the upwelling of love, of adoration towards Draco, that bubbled to the surface rather than gut-clenching aversion.

Contemplating the thought as he dozed on Draco's chest, Harry revisited the thought that had been developing hesitantly in mind for weeks now. And once the faint niggling of consideration took hold, he couldn't seem to shake it. Turning his head so that his chin rested on Draco's chest once more, Harry blinked up into the half-closed eyes of the boy beneath him.

"Draco?"

"Yes, love?"

Harry felt a rush of warmth suffuse him at the term; Draco had just started using it and he couldn't be happier for the fact. "I was wondering…" He paused. How exactly did one go about something like this? "If I were to suggest something, how likely do you think you'd be to agree to it?"

Draco blinked slowly before wedging an elbow behind him to prop himself up higher on the pillows. He frowed. "What are you talking about?"

Which, of course, made the situation that much more awkward. Harry thrust aside any misgivings he might have and reaffirmed his stance. Why not just… go for it?

Pushing himself up onto his knees, Harry slid forwards so that he was face to face with Draco. He paused for only a second before he leant forward and gently pressed their lips together. Draco was unresponsive for a moment, still puzzled, but rapidly fell into the familiarity of the motions. Harry felt hands slip around his back, gently cradling his hips as they worked to draw themselves closer together, mouths opening and tongues sliding in languid caresses. Harry let his own hands slip up into Draco's hair, fingers entwining in soft, white-blonde locks and holding them firmly together.

When they broke apart for breath, panting slightly, Draco huffed in faint laughter. "What did you want to ask? I think we may have gotten a little distracted."

Harry didn't answer. In a mechanical flick of his fingers, he slipped his glasses from his face, tossed them onto the bedside table, and in a single sliding motion slipped backwards off of Draco's lap. "I was just wondering…" His fingers dropped to the top of Draco's trousers, looping behind the band and stroked the pale skin beneath. He glanced up at Draco through blurred sights but even his weakened vision couldn't obscure the surprise that was rapidly spreading across Draco's face.

"W…what?"

Harry uttered no answer once more. The surprise only grew into shock on Draco's face, but he didn't pull away when Harry began unzipping his trousers, nor when he tugged them down slightly. Despite the shock on his face – he looked almost scared, in a stupefied sort of way – he more helped than hindered the attempt to remove his garments.

And when Harry slipped off the boxers beneath, dropping down onto his elbows between his legs, Draco let out a choked"'H-harry, what are you…? You don't have to –"

"Draco, my question?" For some reason, Harry felt relaxed, only a hint of nervousness, a glimmer of faint embarrassment that was easily smothered. "Would you let me?"

At any other time, Harry would have been struggling to suppress laughter at Draco's expression. Not now. The blonde swallowed convulsively, seemed to fight an internal battle with himself, before he gave a very small tilt to his head in a nod.

And that was all Harry needed.

He knew what he was doing. Deny the reality as he may have done for so long, there was no overlooking where Harry _did_ know what he was doing. Stephen had experimented, of course, and Stephen wanted it exactly how he liked it. Harry would be overlooking the blatant truth if he said he hadn't learnt just what felt good, what elicited the most dramatic responses.

So Harry knew where to begin, knew how to position himself and just the right amount of prssure to apply in just the right places. And surprisingly, surprising even to himself, he found that the use of such knowledge, even coloured by the memory of where it came from, didn't distress him. Or more correctly, it didn't distract him from the present. Nor did it pull him into a spinning vortex of dark, muddled memories.

No, Harry didn't think anything could distract him at that moment, for when he first dropped his chin, fingers curling gently around Draco's budding arousal and lowered his mouth onto the tip, the groan, almost a whimper, that choked from the blonde boy was far too fascinating to turn away from.

Slowly, with forced care and just the right amount of slowness, Harry lost himself in the motions of provoking those moans. Kissing and licking gently at the sensitive tip, running his tongue down the underside of the steadily hardening member. He closed his eyes to revel in the Draco's groan, stroking his length with tongue and hands, curling fingers in the wiry curls of the golden hair between his legs and gently fondling him with his palm.

'H… Harry…'

Glancing up from the cradle of Draco's legs, one hand resting on a pale thigh, tongue and fingers of the other still working slowly, Harry felt a smile of delight draw tug at his lips. Draco's face was creased in lines that could have been pained had his eyes not spoken an entirely different story. Lust blown pupils were affixed upon Harry as one hand hesitantly stroked and then locked into Harry's hair. His thighs trembled slightly, as though he was physically straining himself to remain immobile. Still holding Draco's eyes, Harry paused for a moment, then with exaggerated care ran his tongue over the tip of his hard length once more. The groan that sprung forth was even more broken than those preceding it.

It was intoxicating. Harry had never seen the likes of it before, the face of his lover twisted in pleasure because of what he was doing for him. And even as the wayward thought of 'just like Stephen' flickered through his mind, he was thrusting it aside as irrelevant. No, Stephen hadn't been like this. Harry had never felt that upwelling of warmth in his own gut, his own response kindled, at affording such pleasure. And this was something that Harry did because he wanted to. Because he chose to. And seeing Draco struggle to smother his pleasured moan only enhanced the desire to do more.

In a single motion, Harry took the hard length in his mouth, wrapping his lips around soft, warm skin and sunk down in one swift motion. Draco was larger than he'd expected, and the stiffened arousal made him even more so, but Harry managed to swallow him nearly whole. The hand in his hair tightened, but he didn't pause, and, fingers still working, he sucked in his cheeks and drew off before deep throating once more. The frazzled words, the broken moans his motions elicited only spurred his further. Down, and up, a stroke of his tongue and down once more.

Draco didn't last long. His immobility lasted even less time, and not a handful of minutes had passed before he was bucking and writhing, struggling in a battle between his desire to thrust into Harry's mouth and that to hold perfectly still. Harry didn't care, either way, the moans of Draco's pleasure, choked and breathless, music to his ears. _I'm doing this... He wants me to do this, and I'm choosing to because I really, actually, want to._ The knowledge was empowering, causing him to hum, satisfied, as he drew slowly off Draco's throbbing length once more, sucking tightly. He should have known it would be too much, anyway.

Draco came in a strangled groan, both hands locking into Harry's hair tightly and grasping for dear life. Harry sucked for a moment longer, the salty bitterness lathering his tongue, momentarily choking before he swallowed it. A faint reprimand – _well, I probably could have timed that a little better_ – was lost as his eyes flickered upwards.

Draco was half slumped into the pillows behind him, panting as though from exertion. His mouth opened and closed, struggling to find words, and Harry felt a moment of satisfaction that he was able to so completely discard the Malfoy mask.

"That was… are you…? I mean, that…"

Sitting himself up on his knees, Harry wiped a hand across his chin, his lips, ridding them of the slight wetness. "Did you like it?"

Draco didn't answer with words. He simply stared, stunned for a moment, before in a darting motion that nearly started Harry from the bed he reached forwards and dragged him back into his lap. Harry settled himself comfortably across his bare hips, legs straddling Draco's thighs. Long, slender fingers cupped his chin, his jaw, stroked thumbs across his cheeks. It should have been surprising when Draco crushed their lips together – Harry had never received a kiss after doing that, had never wanted one – but it wasn't. And it felt utterly perfect to just sink into his warmth, his embrace.

Was he happy? Yes… yes he should think so.

It felt like a remarkable step in the right direction. Harry thought with a half-hearted reprimand at his own eroticism that he simply couldn't wait just to try more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Comments greatly appreciated. As always, a massive, massive thank you to everyone who has done so. Thank you, wonderful people!


	8. A Woman Shunned

Draco was happy.

Blaise thought he was mad – N.E. were just around the corner, after all. Why wasn't he tearing his hair out in distress? – but Draco hardly cared. Everything was going right with the world, and he wouldn't change a thing, looming exams or otherwise.

Just about every subject was cruising along swimmingly. Draco felt he had a handle on the majority of the course content, and knew he excelled at Ancient Runes and Potions. Yet even Arithmancy, widely acknowledged to be one of the most difficult of subjects to grasp, was slotting itself easily into his learning mind. More importantly, even Charms, the twice-cursed Charms that had somehow conceptually slipped through his fingers so frequently throughout his schooling years, was sorting itself out just fine. He couldn't quite keep the glowing grin of satisfaction from spreading across his face when he actually managed the practical application of the complex healing charm _Mentis Sielo_ the fastest in the class. Before even Hermione. Granted, they were on conjured dummies, but he was nonetheless exceptionally self-satisfied.

Severus had even complimented him. That was what truly an indication that he was doing well. Draco's godfather had dropped his weekly interrogations to fornightly, even with his initial concern over the conclusion of his sessions with Fitzherbert.

Yes, Draco's studies were going simply as well as could be hoped for given the circumstances. Yet more importantly than that – or at least how it felt at the moment – it was his relationship with Harry was… _exceptional_.

To say Draco was surprised by his Christmas gift – well, his second Christmas gift – would be an understatement. Ever since his utterly unforgiveable actions at Hogsmeade the previous year, Draco had been as taut as a violin's strings. He could hardly touch Harry for fear of triggering some horrible resurfacing of his memories, another bout of regression that would leave his partner shaking and flinching at the sight of him. He didn't know if he could handle that, both the pain that he watched Harry go through and the knowledge that he was the one who had induced it, however unintentionally. Even when it had nothing to do with his own actions Draco couldn't stand seeing Harry so hurt and miserable. He couldn't even consider pushing their relationship towards embracing further intimacy with that knowledge. It was bordering on dangerous to even kiss the other boy, surely.

The previous November, when Harry had the panic attack in his session with Señora Laverde, only heightened his concerns. Draco was so proud, and a little in awe, of the fact that Harry was making such a concerted effort to heal himself of the wounds of his past. He couldn't fathom just how hard it was to confront something that Draco knew Harry had spent his entire life desperately repressing. He could only support him in his endeavour.

But after that incident… It was the first time that Draco actively suggested they leave off trying to 'fix the problem' as Harry called it. When he'd received the Floo call from Neville, it had been a struggle not to dive through the fire and inevitably loose himsely in the magical network that existed between fireplaces. He'd never hated the lack of international Floo transport as much as at that point. Really, was a message so different from bodily transportation?

When he'd finally managed to obtain a portkey and made his way to the academy – it had seemed to take forever, but Neville had spoken admiringly of how impossibly fast Draco had made his way into the small Wizarding pocket in the Pyrenees – he'd been horrified. Harry had looked terrible, as bad as he had at the Three Broomsticks weeks before. Pale and visibly shaking, the exhausted boy had attempted to smile reassuringly at Draco, offered a word of comfort to Draco himself and quietly inform him that yes, he was alright. No, he didn't want to stop the sessions. That it was just a little hiccup. Harry had been forced to bodily push Draco into a carriage to depart to Paris to get him to leave and Draco had sulked miserably for a good three days afterwards.

Draco didn't push the situation, not from any aspect. He didn't want to push it, despite that his infuriating libido urged him to do otherwise. Draco wouldn't cross that bridge until Harry was entirely prepared for it.

He knew it frustrated Harry, that he wouldn't initiate contact save for a handhold, a brief kiss or an entirely too-platonic embrace. Draco had been worried to even sleep in the same bed with Harry, so terrified was he about upsetting him once more. It had taken Harry silently fuming before professing that it would actually make him far more upset if Draco didn't sleep exactly as they had been for months now to urge him otherwise. And, nervous though it had made him, Draco had been secretly relieved. He still missed sharing a bed with Harry when they were both at their respective schools, even after month of separation. He doubted he would ever be entirely comfortable with it in the forseeable future.

So, even with Harry's rising to the occasion, with his own encouragement of contact and initiating anything more than bare minimal contact, Draco had been surprised at Christmas. No, surprise would be an understatement; besides, it would completely undermine the sheer euphoria he'd experienced in the situation. Because, deny the steps that led up to such an endpoint as he may, there was one thing that he didn't even want to deny.

Harry gave absolutely _fantastic_.

Draco was hardly a blushing virgin. Nor was he unfamiliar with oral sex by any stretch of the imagination. But even accounting for the fact that Draco was well and truly head-over-heels in love – he wasn't even hesitant in admitting such – Harry was undoubtedly incredible. More than Daphne, he registered, and that was saying something. Even if Draco had never been further from contemplating his ex-girlfriend than he was when he was with Harry; Draco had thought there could literally be nothing better than what he had experienced in the past, but then…

Harry didn't even bother with foreplay. Draco wasn't even sure if he knew exactly how to engage in such, but it was hardly necessary. It wasn't needed, now when something like _that_ was so short in following. The memory gave Draco goosebumps and an flooding warmth in the nether regions just to recall.

Even the sorrow that arose when he considered just how Harry had gained his own experience couldn't dampen the feeling. True, such was probably a result of the rather impressive scowl Harry had adopted when Draco had skirted uneasily around the topic. He couldn't help it; he had to ask. Surely any sexual interactions would bring up unwanted memories?

Harry had folded his arms across his chest, raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips severely. "And just what makes you think that you are anything like Stephen?"

That seemed to have become Harry's favourite phrase of late, but it still gave Draco an upwelling of childish relief every time he said it. Coupled with the fact that Harry had finally stopped calling Defaux 'uncle', he'd never been more happy to hear reference to the hated man.

Their sex life had progressed gloriously in the New Year. Like a dam that had been shattered explosively, Draco found he couldn't get enough of the onrushing waves of discovery. Surprisingly – or perhaps unsurprisingly, given how such a sequence of events had arisen – Harry was much the same. Or at least, he was hesitantly of a similar mind.

Draco had rapidly come to the realisation that there were pitfalls in their intimacy. The first time he had attempted to initiate a similar degree of intimacy that Harry had begun on Christmas night himself, Harry had flinched in a spasm of visible fear before apologising profusely and scolding himself with a severity that could have put a house elf to shame. It had taken quite some time for Draco to calm his frustration.

For it wasn't Harry's fault, he knew that. It was almost subconscious, the flinching reaction, the retreat. Only… when Harry had initiated their intimacy, he had been fine. Or seemed fine, at least.

Draco worked with that. Always hesitant, gentle and slow, always asking and informing Harry of what he was doing to such a degree that even Harry had grown exasperated. It was worth it, though. Gradually, oh so gradually, that unconscious fear had dwindled until it was nearly non-existant.

Draco still waited for Harry to initiate any degree of intimacy almost every time, to which Harry only sighed, frustrated once more when he finally confessed his tendency to doing such. But that didn't mean that his hands were less hesitant when they were both embraced in the throughs of passion. If anything they were more so because of his forced restraint.

The first time they had gotten off together – the first time it had been anything more than Harry simply pleasuring him – had been one of the most spectacular moments of Draco's life, and not only for the sheer pleasure of a mind-blowing orgasm. The expression on Harry's face, flushed cheeks and eyes closed, lashes leaving dark curls on pink skin and mouth slightly parted in a faint pant, was an image that would stay with Draco forever. When their breathing had slowed enough for Draco to speak, he'd smiled blissfully at his partner and kissed him in a haze of residual passion. "Good?"

Harry had nodded in a similar daze, a shy smile stretching across his face and bringing an even more vibrant flush to his face that didn't seem shy in the least. He dropped his head onto Draco's shoulder as he pressed himself to into his chest. He was half cradled in Draco's lap as it was, and seemed to hardly spare a thought for the sticky mess between them. "Mmm. That's never happened to me before."

Draco shifted to look down at Harry's bowed head, a frown grow on his head in confusion. "What, with a boyfriend…?"

Dark hair tickled Draco's cheek as Harry shook his head. "No. Not with a boyfriend. Not with anyone at all."

That had left Draco blinking in a profound stupor. "What, you mean you've never…? No one's ever…?"

Harry gave another shake of his head but didn't speak again. He didn't seem overly embarrassed by the admission, which was something, Draco supposed. Rather, he appeared simply and utterly spent, content to snuggle into Draco and fall into a semi-doze. Draco was left holding him tightly, in a daze for entirely different reasons.

_So I'm the first that he's ever been like this with? The first that he's actually gotten any pleasure whatsoever from being with someone?_

If that wasn't a thought to keep him awake at nights for all the right reasons, Draco didn't know what was. If anything, it only made him want to offer a repeat performance at every possible opportunity. And after that initial hesitancy, Harry was only too happy to oblige. What could Draco say? They were a pair of lovestruck seventeen year olds.

When Draco had returned from Christmas break, the good-humour had lasted even through the strict and rather too informative announcement by McGonagall to all seventh years as to their dedication to their studies. His satisfaction must have simply radiated from him, because not only Blaise but his Gryffindor friends seemed to realise _something_ was different. It only took half a day for Blaise to confront him.

"So." The Italian boy had leaned on the doorframe into the dormitory room with the ease of long-held presumptuousness. A lazy smile spread across his face. "You finally got laid."

Draco glanced up from editing his report and raised an eyebrow at his friend. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh come on, don't try and deny it. I can practically smell it on you."

His words didn't conjure particularly pleasant images, though they failed to shake the growing smirk from Draco's face. Blaise wasn't _entirely_ correct; it wasn't like they'd actually _fully_ consummated anything yet – probably wouldn't for a while – but still… Blaise was uncannily perceptive with such things. As always. He had known the morning after Draco had lost his virginity and confronted him with a congratulatory slap on the back. It was mildly disconcerting. "It's absolutely none of your business."

"Really? You're trying to pull that one? Don't try to deny it –"

"I'm not denying anything," Draco replied, turning back to his report. "I'm simply saying it's none of your business." And with a well-aimed sweep of his wand, Draco sent his friend stumbling from the room and the door slamming shut in his face. He'd heard the chuckles even through the thick wood of the door.

No, Draco and Harry hadn't taken that step yet, despite the growth in their intimacy. Draco didn't want to push things by suggesting it, and what they had at present was more than enough. Each weekend they met throughout the new term was filled with further explorations; Draco struggled sometimes to recall exactly how they'd spent their idle time prior to such a development. Uneventfully, it would appear, in comparison. Nothing could be more exciting than enticing the expression Harry got on his face when Draco had returned the gift he'd received at Christmas in kind.

Yes, life was going swimmingly, and to make matters even more exciting, March the first was the day that replies from potential Masters reportedly began filing in.

Draco swept through the hallways of Hogwarts eagerly that morning, Blaise at his side chattering innanely. His friend was in a remarkably good mood, considering that he had absolutely no reason to be; Blaise was headed towards a career in his uncle's business which, as far as Draco could make out, amounted to lazing about and ordering other people around while he sat back and complained about their inefficiency. That was to say nothing of the short, four hour working days a week and impressive income that naturally accumulated from the famous Zabini winery. The role would suit Blaise perfectly.

When they entered the Great Hall, it was to be nearlyloughed over by Hermione as she charged through them into the Entrance Hall. Draco and Blaise neatly caught an arm each to prevent her from slipping in her haste, slowing her flight. The Gryffindor girl thanked them with a beaming smile and gush of garbled words nearly as messy as her hair, uttered something about sending a letter to her parents, and took off once more. Draco watched bemusedly as she panted up the stairs. The girl was hardly an athlete; he didn't think he'd seem her move at faster than a determined power walk in his entire schooling experience.

"What was that all about?"

Turning to Blaise, Draco shrugged. "I'm assuming she got a letter from her potential master. And from the looks of things it was good news."

"She wanted to go into Muggle-Wizarding relations, didn't she?"

Draco sighed, exasperated, as he led them through the doors to breakfast. A brief glance around the room quickly located the orange head of the youngest Weasley son. He looked entirely too at home at the Slytherin table amidst the other seventh year students. Evidently some of the Slytherins thought so too, as Daphne, Tracey Davis and Millicent Bulstrode exchanged whispers between pointed glares while Theodore Nott just seemed faintly bemused. Ron, naturally, was oblivious to it all.

Turning his attention back to Blaise, Draco adopted his condescending persona. "Honestly, how can you even ask that? She only tells us at every possible opportunity."

Blaise grinned his lazy grin. "I pretty much tune out to her monologues these days. Can you blame me?"

Draco couldn't. He really couldn't.

Ron shuffled down in his seat to make room for their arrival, shunting his overladen plate with him. The boy had finally discarded the necessary use of the Motion Chair over the Christmas holidays and, though he wouldn't exactly be up to running for at least another six months, his mobility had improved by miles. Not to say that he still sometimes didn't abuse the levitating chair when it took his fancy; he and Blaise had set up a Friday nights racing competition of sorts between a number of enthusiastic seventh years. If word had it correctly, Blaise was making a pretty penny from the wagers placed with mindless enthusiasm.

"Morning, Draco, Blaise." Ron barely even glanced up from his plate in greeting.

"Ron." Draco ladeled porridge into his bowl, deftly avoiding Blaise's arm as it reached across him for the stack of toast. "Hermione left in a bit of a flutter."

"Yeah, she got a letter from Einheardht." Ron took a swig of his juice.

Draco gave him a long-suffering, expectant glance. "And? Don't keep me waiting breathless."

"And she got the position. Of course she did, you know. She's smart; anyone would be insane to turn her away. She'll be studying and working in the city come July." The fond smile Ron produced was mangled by another bite of sausage. "I'm proud of her."

"I'll bet. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"What are you going to do? Have you had any more thoughts?" Draco knew Ron hadn't applied anywhere, despite Hermione's constant berations and encouragement to do so. He could hardly blame the Weasley boy. Ron wasn't a studier, despite his intelliegence. He was more of a practicals man.

Ron shrugged, propping an elbow on the table. "Dunno. I don't want to go to that Mason House College –"

"Manning House College," Blaise corrected.

"Yeah, whatever. I mean, I'm just keen to get out of school, you know?"

Draco spared a glance for his friend. "What about the Auror training? You seemed at least mildly interested."

"Yeah, that's what I've been thinking." Ron shrugged again. "But I've got to lay low for a bit, get my legs sorted and all. 'Sides, main thing I want at the moment is just to stay with Hermione."

"Ah, cupid has strung his bow once more, has he, _mi amico_?" Blaise crooned mockingly, ducking to avoid a crust that Ron launched at him.

"Yeah, yeah, shut up."

As Blaise descended into snorting jibes, Ron turned his attention back to Draco. "How about you? Heard back from anyone yet?"

Draco shook his head. "Not yet, but it's only, what, eight o'clock. I'm not worried." He wasn't. Much.

"And so you shouldn't be." Blaise nudged him with a sharp elbow. "I think this one's yours."

The graceful barn owl did appear to be heading straight for Draco, or at least for their trio. The elegant yet still audible landing right before him, followed by a pompous extension of its taloned leg, alleviated any doubt.

Draco paused briefly at the motion. He could see his own name inscribed in coffee-coloured ink on the thick, expensive parchment scroll. Even from those two words he could recognise the script. He was sure he could have from a single letter. Dorrick. His first reply was from Dorrick.

Draco wasn't nervous. Not really, if he coached himself into believing as much enough. It wouldn't be the end of the world if he didn't get the apprenticeship, and though Dorrick was exceptional as a Master of Ancient Runes, he wasn't the only one. Okay, well, he was the reputedly the best in Europe, but Burisque had his own unique flair that was unmatched by other masters of the industry, and Gilvorth had printed more books on the art of translation and interpretation than any other specialist in the world. It wouldn't matter if –

"So, are you, I don't know, going to open it sometime today?" Despite Blaise's teasing words, his tone was serious. Try as he might, Draco couldn't exactly keep it a secret from his best friend just how much he wanted to apprentice under Dorrick.

The words urged him into action. Reaching forward with hands that certainly didn't tremble, not in the slightest, Draco unwound the twine. The barn owl launched itself back into flight before Draco had even broken the wax seal.

Unrolling the scroll, his eyes immediately flickered down to the bottom to confirm that which he already knew. Dorrick. The reply truly was from Dorrick, the sharp curves of his letters familiar from the last and only other correspondence they had shared when Draco had first put in his request. He'd pored over that reply in the privacy of his room more times than he could count. It filled him with a quiver of delight when he read of the Master's recognition of his academic prowess. Not that he would tell anyone, of course.

Flickering his eyes to the top of the page, Draco didn't even bother to attempt to hide the words from Blaise's curious eyes as his friend peered over his shoulder.

_Dear Mister Draco Malfoy,_

_I write you regarding the status of your recent application under my tutelage. Once more, I thank you for your expression of interest; it is such a joy to see such bright, eager young wizards and witches seeking to pursue a career in the noble and respected study of Ancient Rune._

_However, I regret to inform you that I am unable to provide you with a position. It is with the deepest commiseration that I write as such, but given the contention of applicants…_

Draco read the rest of the letter in a blur of uncomprehending eyes. When he reached the bottom, his reread it with growing melancholy. It only grew the longer he stared.

_Dammit. Merlin be damned… I wanted it so badly…_

"Dray…"

Blaise's voice was filled with sympathy, the pat on his shoulder consoling. Ron murmured his own consolation at his other side, but Draco barely heard. It was only when a figure stepped up to the table across from him, posing in an obvious bid for attention, that he was shaken from his blank staring. His eyes slowly focused with a few rapid blinks to lock upon the slender figure of Daphne Greengrass, Bulstrode and Davis at her shoulders. There was nothing sympathetic about her expression.

"What's that Draco, a returned application?" She smirked snidely in a way that was far too self-satisfied for Draco's comfort, even in his detached state. "Dorrick was not overly fond of your glowing report, was he?"

The words rung sourly in Draco's ears, shaking him fully from his stupor. The longer he stared at Daphne, the more her expression didn't look quite right.

"Greengrass, what did you do?" Blaise's voice was low, with a hint of danger to it.

Daphne barely spared him a glance. She had eyes only for Draco, yet it was the broadening smile that spoke for her. Draco felt his gut clench. She was never going to leave that slight untouched, was she? And the Greengrass family were excessively wealthy and incredibly well-connected. It's to be expected that she would do something of the kind.

"So sorry for such a sadly missed opportunity, Draco. Perhaps you should consider your options a little more closely before barrelling into your decisions." With a final smirk she spun on her heel, drawing Bulstrode and Davis behind her as they sashayed from the Great Hall. She didn't glance once more over her shoulder, though every step indicated she knew she was being watched.

"What a bitch," Ron growled in a rumbling mutter beside him, his eyes flashing venomously. Blaise was similarly simmering, but Draco hardly spared him a glance.

He could feel the depression settling on his shoulders. Talk as he might about there being other Masters, it was known that Dorrick was the best. And Greengrass had effectively cut short his chances with the man, however she'd gone about it. He wasn't sure he exactly wanted to know; the Greengrass family were known for their foot in the medical industry, but if whispers spoke truths, they – like most old pureblood families – didn't stop at the one investment. And if Daphne – or more likely her parents – had somehow convinced Dorrick not to take him on as an apprentice, he doubted he'd have any better luck next year.

A soft pat on the shoulder caught his attention. "I'm sorry, Draco. What an unfortunate turn of events."

Ron scowled at Blaise's mellow tone. "Unfortunate? The bitch bloody well –"

"I'm just saying,,' Blaise only raised his voice slightly to override Ron's indignant spluttering, "that perhaps it's a blessing in disguise."

Both Draco and Ron turned uncomprehendingly towards him. Blaise shrugged. "You said you wanted to go to France, right? To be with Harry"' He didn't wait for the nod of confirmation, though Draco gave it anyway. "Well, maybe this is fate's way of making up your mind for you." He smiled. "Just hold out for a bit longer. See what other replies come in before you get yourself too down-hearted, my friend."

Draco stared in surprise at the Italian boy. Blaise was hardly one for poignant speeches, but his words resonated strongly, enough to put a halt to Draco's descent into regret and premature grief. _A blessing in disguise_ …

 _Maybe he's right. I mean, Dorrick is the best, but it would mean I would have to juggle travel to France_. Draco pondered thoughtfully. At present, he could honestly say that what he wanted most was to be with Harry. More than anything else, truly. And though he knew it was short-sighted – one had to consider one's future prospects – at present, it seemed the more important of the two. Even as he considered it, the gravity of his distress seemed to dwindle.

It truly wasn't the worst thing that could have happened. There would be other replies. Gilvorth, Fampwing, McFaland. The two French Master's, Burisque and La Fonde. Yes, maybe it was a blessing in disguise.

He felt a smile settle on his face. "You know, you might actually be right about this one, Blaise."

Blaise returned his grin heartily, evidently satisfied with the effectiveness of his intervention. "Of course I am. In fact, I usually am. You just don't appreciate my brilliance."

As Ron proceeded to snort derisively and query just where exactly Blaise got his confidence in his apparent brilliance, Draco settled down to finish his breakfast. He supposed it was probably a good thing that Daphne wasn't there to see. Had she witnessed his distinct rise from melancholy – more than that, the satisfaction that Draco could feel smoothing the creases of worry from his face – he doubted she would have been quite so pleased with herself.

* * *

Harry was furious.

At least, Draco thought he was. He'd never seen Harry angry before, truly angry. Upset, yes, and there had been the distressed anger of the only time Harry had ever raised his voice in Draco's memory. But this was different.

He should have known something was wrong when he didn't receive a reply to his letter pertaining to the incident on Friday morning of his returned application. Draco had sent a missive to Harry with his speculations about Daphne's hand in the works, though he'd assured Harry that he was fine with how it had all turned out. That he was coming to terms with it and, to quote Blaise as he had become so prone to in the past twenty-four hours, that perhaps it was "meant to be".

Harry didn't reply.

That should have been his first clue. True, his partner was coming to Hogsmeade the very next day so a reply may have seemed redundant and excessively unnecessary. But they had never once put their written correspondence on hold for such inconsequential reasons. Draco often pondered at that; Harry had once been so hesitant to write in letters, saying he'd never had the need to before and so didn't exactly know how. Draco wouldn't have been able to pick it from some of the exchanges they made nowadays. For how little Harry had once been partial to speaking, he could certainly write enough to make up for it at times.

When Draco, accompanied by Blaise, Ron, Hermione and the now frequent addition of Luna Lovegood, had wandered down to Hogsmeade early the next morning, it had been to the sight of a very discomforted Neville, a distinctly bemused Ginny and Harry with a face so blank that it could only be hiding something. That should have been the second clue. Since Harry had abruptly lost his ability to hide his emotions two Christmases ago, he'd been fairly atrocious at most successive attempts. So his face, a blank mask that could have rivalled that of a Malfoy's in its emotionlessness, was an indication of the severity of the situation if ever Draco had seen one.

Neville confirmed his growing suspicions. When he saw them, he immediately ploughing into Ron and Hermione, stated with such garbled reasoning that Draco couldn't make out the why that they "had to leave right now", and dragging them off. Ginny had smirked at her boyfriend's behaviour but Draco noticed that she had hastened after them without a backwards glance.

Blaise seemed to take the unspoken warning to heart and, latching onto Luna as the only remaining 'spare' accompaniment, similarly disappeared down the central road of Hogsmeade. The Ravenclaw girl flashed Harry her vague smile over her shoulder as she passed but he didn't even seem to see her. Draco was left struggling not to fidget under Harry's flat gaze. He felt like nothing so much as a scolded child awaiting reprimand from his mother, though Narcissa had hardly done as such in any instance throughout his childhood.

Clearing his throat, he attempted a casual smile. "Good morning. You're here early." And if the brief kiss was rather cold, Draco chose to overlook the fact.

He would have continued, blurting out anything that chose to arise onto his tongue, had Harry not pinned him with a stare that could have frozen a fleeing rabbit. All with a blank face that seemed carved from marble for its apparent hardness. For the first time in his life, Draco gleaned an insight of just how intimidating Harry was, diminutive size and all, when his embarrassment, his inhibitions, were abruptly dropped. It was a little impressive.

"Draco." His voice was as flat as his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me that Daphne had become a problem?"

Draco shrugged, still striving for casualness. He feared he was failing dismally. "It's hardly a problem, Harry."

"Oh?"

"Yes, 'oh'." With deliberate disregard, Draco stepped forwards and linked his arm through Harry's. It only took a brief moment of insistent tugging before he was leading him down the street. The spring weather was warming, enough that residents and students alike already milled about before storefronts. In the distance Draco could just make out the figure of Blaise dragging a stumbling Luna into Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop. _That bastard, abandoning me_. He could only attempt to dissipate Harry's apparent funk through sheer and persistent nonchalance. "Honestly, Daphne has been nothing more than mildly irritating. If I couldn't overlook her pathetic attempts at humiliation or taunting, I could hardly call myself a Malfoy. It's juvenile and absolutely harmless."

Despite the confidence of his words – and Draco truly did believe them, too – he couldn't look at Harry. When Harry finally spoke, his uncharacteristically cold voice nearly caused him to flinch. "And I suppose that jeopardising your future studies and career opportunities is harmless? Don't try and tell me that you don't care about Dorrick."

Halting in the middle of the street, Draco turned to his partner. Harry's flat stare had become almost a glare now, and despite the topic at hand, that he knew he wasn't even the direct focus of his anger, Draco couldn't quite help shrinking a little. The folding of his slender arms, even still linked through Draco's, didn't help the effect. _Merlin, I never thought he could be_ scary _but…_ "Look, Harry. It's true, I was a little disappointed –"

"I think that's something of an understatement," Harry said quietly.

"But," Draco overrode him. "It's not the end of the world. Far from it. It's hardly the end of my future in studying Ancient Runes. Because there _are_ other Masters."

"Whom you haven't heard from yet."

Draco paused, raising an eyebrow. "How do you know that? I haven't written you since yesterday morning."

"Yes, but you would have if you'd been sent anything more." Harry had shifted his gaze from its penetratingly intense stare of Draco to the distant road. His apparent anger didn't appear to have cooled, but at least Draco could breath without cringing, could think and reply eloquently.

Considering, Draco had to cede that yes, had he received more positive news he doubted he would have been able to refrain from writing to Harry immediately. He had never been one to covet favourable news. Rather, boasting gaily to the word was his usual approach. "True. But that doesn't mean anything. Sure, frequently replies come within the first day of approvals, but it's not unusual for them to be later. Besides, I'm awaiting missives from a few international Masters too; who knows, maybe they take more time to consider?"

He spoke with forced positivity, laced with his persistent attempt at casualness, but despite the farce Draco refused to cave under melancholic thoughts once more. His brief stint yesterday had already set him on a determined path of denial, regardless of how idealistic such a perception was. He found it remarkably easy to offer Harry a smile.

Harry, for the first time since he'd arrived, allowed his rigid mask to slip slightly. He frowned, though blessedly more in confusion than anger. "You really aren't that upset?"

Draco shrugged. "Not now, no. Wait until I receive all my replies for me to say with any sort of confidence that I won't be." He grinned as Harry's frown deepened. "But with Daphne? No, I'm not upset. I guess I was initially – very briefly – but it all just seems rather petty now, doesn't it?"

Harry shook his head, but in disbelief rather than dissent. "Look at that, I think you might have grown up, Draco."

"Are you mocking me? I resent that, Harry."

Harry gave a small smile that quickly died. "Why you not be angry with her?"

Unsure whether he should be insulted with the slight emphasis Harry placed on 'you', Draco carded his fingers through his hair, sighing. "Firstly, Daphne doesn't even deserve my anger. It's unfounded."

"Though you know why she's angry."

Nodding his head, Draco replied, "Yes, and though you and Hermione have adeptly informed me of exactly how I've angered her, I still maintain that she is overreacting."

"A proposition shunned will almost definitely result in –"

"Yes, yes, so you've told me." Draco waved a hand to disregard the reprimand. Nonchalance. Forced nonchalance. "And I agree, I probably could have handled it better."

Harry's eyebrows rose in surprise, a smile – approving? – twitching his lips. Draco was just so relieved to see the uncharacteristic anger dying from his face that he hardly cared for the condescending connotations. "Still, her grudge is a little excessive."

Tilting his head thoughtfully, Harry settled his hand loosely into Draco's once more and they continued their aimless stroll. "Excessive or not, she evidently feels she's entitled to act upon it."

"Evidently."

"But," and that flicker of anger arose once more with a tightening of Harry's finger's. "She's not the only one. I think she should be aware of that."

Draco didn't entirely understand what Harry meant by that. Or more, he didn't really want to think about what it meant. It was almost frightening to see his partner's face set so determinedly, to hear him speaking so intensely that Draco wasn't sure he wanted to understand what he meant. Still, it appeared to be of little consequence as they settled into their familiar rhythm and talk turned to other, less controversial subjects.

Neville, Ginny and the rest of the Hogwarts students met up with them shortly after. Cowards that they were, Draco suspected they had refrained from accompanying he and Harry in their wanderings until certain that Harry had quelled his surprising bout of anger. Neville had even approached Draco in a brief interval where Harry had been distracted by Luna and praised him for surviving what he said he feared would result in severe debilitation of at least one unwary friend. Apparently Harry had been in something of a mood since the previous morning, to put it kindly.

But then… Draco should have known better than to think Harry was past his brief brush with fury. Just before midday, as Ron and Neville were arguing over where to take lunch while Blaise rather admirably manipulated the both of them towards his own preference with neither the wiser, Daphne appeared. Only in the distance, to be sure, but like a marksmen with his target in his sights, Harry seemed to hone in upon her presence from the moment she appeared.

Draco didn't notice at first. It was only when Harry stopped in midstep that he even realised his anger had been sparked once more. Glancing towards him, Draco didn't even get a chance to utter a word before Harry, eyes affixed on the blonde girl leaving Honeydukes, said, "Draco, would you mind waiting here for a moment?"

Their entire small party froze at his words. Not because they were loud, or even because they carried any particular force, but simply because of the sense of foreboding that seemed to spring to life in the air.

Hermione was the first to respond, sidling warily up to Draco's other side. "Um, Harry, I don't think you should –"

"I'm not going to do anything drastic. I just want to talk to her."

"I'll come with –"

"Draco, if you don't stay put, I swear I'll hex you." The glance Harry sent him must have been laced with magic, because Draco was filled with the certainty that he wouldn't be able to move an inch to follow him. Harry was not a violent person; Draco didn't think he'd ever met anyone less aggressive in his life, nor such a pacifist. Even when considering the death of Voldemort the previous year, Draco would refute anyone who claimed him capable of conducting any act in aggression. Draco knew that Voldemort's death had left Harry in a state of horror; it was likely a significant contributor to his nightmares, though Harry never confirmed as much. For months afterwards the Battle, Harry had started frantically with any noise that even vaguely resembled a gunshot.

And yet, in that moment, Draco entirely believed that Harry could and would hex him had he made a move to follow him. How different to the previous year when he couldn't even perform a Jelly-Legged Charm.

Pausing only a moment longer to be certain that Draco would heed his request, Harry started down the road, leaving his stunned friends in his wake. Blaise's whispered "Who is that, and what have they done with our _poupée_?" resonated with startling clarity. It was true; despite being almost certain he wasn't, Draco almost felt as though Harry had succumbed to the Imperius Curse. Draco could only watch in mild awe and a little fear as he stepped up to Daphne and drew her attention with an apparently polite word and a tilt of his head.

He wasn't the only one; Draco's surrounding friends peered around him – from _behind_ him, naturally, bloody cowards! – with a mixture of awe, anticipation and excitement. Only Hermione seemed to express a modicum of concern, and that was nearly overwhelmed by her own blatant curiosity.

They made quite a pair, Harry and Daphne. Beautiful in their own ways, the both of them they quite overshadowed Bulstrode and Davis who stood slightly removed from the confrontation to the side. Daphne would turn heads in a street of just about anyone with a pair of eyes, her long legs, swaying walk and patrician profile simply demanding notice.

Harry was different. Quiet, and generally attempting unobtrusiveness, his own small, delicate countenance were generally overlooked. At first, anyway. Yet the longer Draco knew him, the more stunning he seemed to grow. Maybe it was that he no longer seemed to strive to keep himself in the shadows. Or, as Draco liked to think – any way for him to take credit he woud grab with both hands – that perhaps the simple change in dress accounted for it. Though he still attempted to keep to plain, simple garments, and generally Muggle at that, Draco was quite proud that his own input amounted to a wardrobe that fit him so perfectly and so flatteringly.

Watching the pair of them from a wary distance, it was perhaps expected that they had more than their friends as an audience. Though neither were tall, with Harry shorter even than Daphne despite a slight growth spurt in the past year, they nonetheless drew the eye. Daphne wore a figure-hugging violet set of robes that clung to every inch of her body in a way that showed everything yet revealed nothing. Harry, on the other hand, was simply outfitted in fitted jeans, shirt and jacket that, while covering his hands to his knuckles, hardly swam on him like the jumpers he had previously bedecked himself in. His hair, shorter after a cut earlier in the year, was just long enough to tie in a deceptively elaborate braid – Narcissa persisted in teaching him at least one new style every time he visited.

But even with the superficial changes, it was more than that, Draco realised. Simple as his fashion sense appeared, it was the unexpected show confidence that drew the eyes, that emphasised that which had always been there but persisted to hide.

Draco didn't know where that confidence had come from. He'd never seen it before himself, and could only put it down to the anger that seemed to make him oblivious to curious eyes that had him naturally withdrawing into shadows. While it wouldn't be apparent to those that didn't know him, such anger was evident to the group of Hogwarts and ex-Hogwarts students.

When Harry approached Daphne, she paused and turned to him with a look of amusement tinged with thinly veiled disgust. That itself wasn't particularly unusual; Daphne usually viewed those around her like nothing more than dragon dung on the soles of her shoes. Surprisingly, however, she didn't immediately dismiss the shorter boy but appeared to be drawn into conversation.

It was fascinating to watch, the deteriorating play of expressions across Daphne's face. For that was all Draco could see. Harry had his back to him, standing at such a distance that he couldn't hear a word. Daphne's sneer gradually faded to affront, then confusion, then something deeper and oddly baffling. And all to abruptly, she seemed to loose all colour. Face paling rapidly to a sickly grey, her eyes widened and her mouth slipped open in a wordless splutter.

"What the…"

Draco thought it was Ron who spoke, or maybe Neville, but it could have been any of them. The surprise was paramount, pervasive. Draco had never seen Daphne so shaken in his life. Ever. The girl had composed herself enough to move past splutters, though somehow, impossibly, she seemed to be paling further and further under what Draco could only assume was a threat of sorts delivered by one whom Draco considered to be the least threatening person in the world. Her lips had become an almost dangerous shade of purple and her eyes looked set to spring from her skull by the time Harry – even more surprisingly – patted her twice, swiftly, on the shoulder, turned on his heel and walked away.

The expression on Harry's face as he turned towards them was devoid of any tinge of anger or resentment. Even the expected satisfaction of an intimidation act gone well was absent. He seemed completely unmoved by the girl left stupefied in his wake, a girl who seemed altogether unresponsive to the frantic questioning her friends were hissing in her ears. Draco was not sure whether to be nervous or welcoming when Harry fell in beside him, offering a small smile that was entirely too disconcerting given the circumstances.

Draco's voice was slightly strangled when he spoke. "What, um… what did you say to her, Harry?"

He wasn't the only one staring with a sort of wariness at the boy next to him, wondering just what exactly could have so disconcerted _the_ Daphne Greengrass. The girl was the one that disconcerted others, not the other way around. Harry only spared a brief glance around his circle of friends before turning back to Draco with a barely perceivable smile. He shrugged, but otherwise offered no explanation.

"Erm, Harry, you feeling alright, mate?" Contrary to his seemingly worried words, Ron edged a step away from his friend.

Harry glanced towards him and blinked in a show of confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Only that you kind of seem a little off."

That small smile returned and, abruptly, Harry himself seemed to slip back into his usual state of benevolent calm. Any trace of anger, as far as Draco could see, had evaporated as he left Daphne – still pale and unhinged – in the middle of the street. "Um… no, I'm fine. I'm feeling a lot better now, actually." His smile widened slightly, but it didn't seem to reassure Ron, who was looking at him with an odd mixture of awe and discomfort. "But anyway, weren't we going to lunch? Blaise, did you manage to convince them to go to back to school? Fish pilaf, wasn't it?"

"No, wait, that was me who said to go back to school," Ron frowned, turning towards Blaise. The Italian boy, shaken out of the stupor that had gripped them all somewhat, grinned in self-satisfaction. "You git!"

The talk abruptly became more animated. The unexpected confrontation with Daphne gradually sliding from the forefront of their minds as they began to make their way back towards Hogwarts. Draco couldn't help but shake his head as his shock grew into baffled amusement; no matter how long he knew Harry, or how well he believed he knew him, his partner still managed to surprise him.

It was only on Sunday night after Harry's departure that the topic arose once more, primarily with Blaise and Ron admiring the still-lasting effects of Harry's 'conversation' with Daphne. The girl had been markedly subdued whenever she was seen and seemed to flinch slightly when she met Draco's eyes. It was far from the sharp-tongued comments that had spewed from her mouth before. He could only wonder at what Harry had actually said to the girl.

He wasn't the only one. Blaise and Ron were becoming more and more creative with their speculations, bordering on the simply inconceivable. Draco highly doubted that Harry had descended to death threats, certainly not those that involved horrific maiming of family members.

Hermione appeared to be in agreement. Listening with half an ear to Blaise and Ron's speculations, she had turned an indulgent smile upon Draco. "I think it's kind of sweet.'

She spoke quietly enough that only Draco, seated at her side at the Gryffindor table, heard her. He blinked in surprise. "What?"

Hermione's smile became slightly longing as she turned to Ron with a shake of her head. "I've never seen him get angry over anything before. That he would do so on your behalf… I just think it's kind of sweet."

Which, of course, led Draco to think of it as nothing but. Suffice to say that he couldn't quite keep the smug smile off his face for the rest of the evening.

* * *

_Harry,_

_I just wanted to let you know that I received another reply for my application today. Only one, so I don't know know about the rest of them yet. It was from Master Calvinn Burisque, that French fellow, you remember? I think he's actually based not too far from Beauxbatons Academy at the moment, if I recall, though word has it that he's headed to South-East Asia shortly._

_Anyway, as you've most likely guessed from the moment you opened this letter, he's accepted my request for apprenticeship. With quite glowing remarks, if I do say so myself. Apparently my name precedes me; I knew Babbling spoke highly of my marks in Ancient Runes, but I didn't know it had travelled quite so far as to be internationally acclaimed. I believe his exact words were 'it would take quite a drastic disaster on your part to change my mind at this point; I look forward to working with you in the coming summer'._

_Does this warrant congratulations? How about a reward? Will you actually tell me what you said to Daphne?_

_My Love,_

_Draco_

* * *

_Draco,_

_How absolutely fantastic! I am so pleased for you. This is wonderful news! I think I nearly gave Tali a heart attack I was so excited when I saw Tsar in the owlery (I still despair that you maintain on calling him that, by the way). I just knew you'd get accepted, but by Master Burisque? You know he hasn't taken an apprentice in five years? You must be even more impressive than I realised!_

_Have you sent a missive to your mother yet? She wrote me yesterday asking if I'd heard from you. Apparently she thinks you are avoiding her and withholding your results from her as punishment. You know it was just a joke, yes? She wasn't really going to tell Severus you called him Father, even if I still maintain that he wouldn't have a problem with it. How long have you known him now? Only your entire life, and he's practically family to you anyway now, isn't he?_

_As for a reward, yes I do believe that such an accomplishment deserves some sort of reward. I don't really know why you seem so adamant about learning what I said to Daphne. It was nothing particularly exciting; I just asked her not to bother you anymore. You seem to think me far more adept at manipulating people than I truly am. Please tell Ron and Blaise the same; I hardly think myself capable of blackmailing such a prestigious family as the Greengrass, though the confidence is reassuring I suppose._

_Lots of Love,_

_Harry_


	9. A New Kind of Wonderful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am so terribly sorry for the delay! I got caught up with writing this other story that has very much demanded to be written, so I do apologise for the lateness of this chapter. But, if anyone is interested, I have two knew stories, **The Twelve Trials of Christmas** and **Merlin, Give Me Strength**. If you feel so inclined, please take a look! Thank you!
> 
> As a WARNING: this chapter contains depictions of sexual situations. If you don't like it... I mean, it's not that graphic or anything, but you still might not like to read it. Just a precaution.

Knocking on the bedroom door, Harry didn't wait for a reply before entering. "Draco? Are you nearly ready? If we don't leave soon, we'll be late."

The heir to the Malfoy family didn't have a bedroom. Not as Harry knew them, anyway. He'd never really even glimpsed into the rooms that Draco called his own when he'd spent Christmas at the Parisian Malfoy Manor a year and a half ago. Not that he'd really peeked into any rooms that weren't largely communal. Draco had spent all of his time – sleeping included – in Harry's room anyway, only darting back to his own to change clothes or grab a book.

They weren't a room because, in all reality, the suite was the size of a small flat itself. When Draco had nonchalantly shown them to Harry for the first time, he'd stared at him blankly for a moment, eyebrows quietly raised.

"What?"

Turning a deliberate, assessing gaze over the interior of the first – _first_ – room, Harry had only raised his eyebrows further. "Draco, I do believe this is not a room but the living quarters of a rather large family."

Draco had snorted, though if anything looked had pleased by Harry's response. "Why not live in luxury when one can afford it?"

Harry had rolled his eyes, exasperated, and shaken his head. Draco was nothing if not indulgent. "Why indeed?"

His partner had then proceeded to give him a brief tour of the suite, and Harry would be lying if he'd claimed he wasn't at least a little impressed. Daunted too, but certainly impressed. The same paleness of the rest of the manor, coupled with wide windows that overlooked the sprawling back gardens resembling a golf course more than a family backyard, gave the rooms an even more widespread impression. Tawny leather couches and a half-sized bookshelf ringed a grated fireplace that crackled with no heat – it was summer, after all – and filled the room with a sparse fineness that would have been intimidating if it didn't have that faint 'lived in' feel to it.

The next room – a parlour with an elaborate set of white tables and chairs that overlooked another wide window – branched off into a study with more books then Harry had seen in his life, a bathroom that could have bathed an Olympic swim team, and Draco's sleeping quarters. The bed itself took up the majority of the room, and that itself wasn't particularly humble. There appeared to be far too many blankets, pillows and curtains around the king-sized four-poster bed, towering it even higher on impressively high mattresses. The addition of creamy white sheets gave nothing if not the semblance of a cloud.

"Living in luxury... how accurate," Harry had murmured, shaking his head and not quite able to hide his smile.

Leaning an arm about Harry's shoudlers lazily, Draco had hummed his agreement. "Well, if I'm going to be living here half of the time when I finish at Hogwarts, I may as well live in comfort."

And that was the crux of the matter. Though in early June he had not yet finished his school year, and hence not yet moved to Paris, his weekend stays were tending more

and more towards their residing in the Malfoy Manor than Sirius' own modest dwelling. Draco called it "growing accustomed to what would soon be his new home" but Harry knew it was just as likely to be an escape from Sirius. Not that the volatility of their relationship persisted particularly, but they would never be what one would deem friends. And despite Draco's apparent ability to be perfectly comfortable in his own skin absolutely anywhere, he'd professed that he'd rather they spent their time alone at the manor.

The operative feature of such a declaration was, naturally, alone. For despite Sirius visiting Anouk nearly every night, even on the weekends that Harry visited these days, there was only so much privacy two young men could acquire living with a middle-aged wizard possessing the acute hearing of a dog. They'd found that out the hard way. Sirius had been glaring daggers at Draco for a good three weeks after they'd been overheard. Harry had been mortified, much to Draco's amusement.

So, every time Draco visited from then onwards, they'd spent at least one of their two days together at the manor. It felt very large with just the two of them in residency, but the nostalgia of the setting overrode any uneasiness. It felt like the starting point, the real beginning of when their relationship had begun to change. So much had happened in only eighteen months.

Draco's birthday was midweek the year he turned eighteen. Though wizards and witches didn't place quite as much emphasis upon their eighteenth year as Muggles, Harry still wanted to make something of the occasion. The previous year, confined as they were due to the aftermath of the war – Harry still cringed at the memory of the reporters calling from the gates of the Ministry-appointed safe house – Draco, Harry and Neville's seventeeth birthdays had been subdued affairs.

Harry knew how much his partner loved to revel in the marvel that was himself, Draco Malfoy. Similarly, his indulgence bordered upon extravagence, though Harry's amused exasperation over the matter usually encouraged him to keep his inclination under wraps. So Harry wanted to make it a point to ensure his birthday that year was special.

The actual night was ground in celebration at Hogwarts. Harry had visited from France, requesting leave for family reasons that his Head of House, who had expressed scepticism but had ceded given her confidence in his dedication towards studenthood.

It had been well-worth the trip, just to see the look on Draco's face when he bowled into him outside of Arithmancy. The party that followed that evening had been a night to remember; Blaise was a good friend to correspond with for planning as, in the absence of Pansy, he seemed to assume her role as host. Even the empty classroom he'd set up for his friend's birthday was impressive; Harry didn't think he'd ever seen so many balloons in one enclosed space before.

It was a riotous gathering of just about every seventh year, even those that usually kept to themselves. Food and alcohol seemed to pour from the walls and Harry became acquainted with far more Wizarding songs than he had even known existed. It was loud, and filled with laughter, dizzying and a little overwhelming.

But Draco had liked it, so much so that even his upset when Harry had regretfully left in the early hours of the morning was dampened slightly. What sadness remained was dispelled further with the promise of a surprise on the weekend that, despite his pretenses at affront, he seemed excited about not being informed of.

A month before, when Harry had asked him what he wanted for his birthday, Draco had simply smiled easily, wrapped his arms around him and said "To be with you". Romantic though it was, Harry was not unfamiliar with Draco's fondness of gifts and extravagance, and had pushed him away to inform him that he needed to suggest something a little more than that.

Draco had only shrugged and smiled once more. "Then make it a surprise. I'll come over to Paris that weekend – it's my weekend anyway – and you can surprise me."

Whether Draco was truly surprised at the nature of Harry's plans was inconsequential. Despite the suggestions to instead hold the weekend in London, Draco had been adamant with "It wasn't fair that you'd have to make the trip two weeks in a row". His genuine concern over the matter was sweet enough that Harry had withheld comment on the benefits of Wizarding transport over Muggle; the travel time was markedly reduced with the use of magic, so notably that Harry couldn't find it in himself to begrudge the trip. Not once.

So Harry had set to organising a surprise. Something different, something that Draco wouldn't choose for himself but would still enjoy. That was what he wanted to plan.

Striding through the Parisian suites, Harry paused and knocked once more on the half- open door to Draco's bedroom. Poking his head through the doorway, he noted that his partner was still in front of the mirror, combing his hair fastidiously much as he had been nearly ten minutes before.

"Draco, your hair is fine," Harry sighed. "Please just leave it alone."

Turning, Draco glanced over his shoulder and fixed Harry with a pointed stare. "Love, if I go out in anything less than my best, then I would hardly be able to look the public in the eye. Besides," and he turned back to his reflection with a slight frown, "I need to make up for wearing the Muggle attire."

Walking up behind Draco, Harry rose on his toes slightly so he could drop his chin on the his shoulder, wrapping his arms around his waist. They met each other's eyes in the reflection of the mirror. "Well, I happen to think it suits you rather well."

"Urgh, please, spare me the insult." Yet cry mercy as he may, Draco's smirk was far too smug to be anything but satisfied.

For he did look good. Very good, in fact, despite the heinousness of wearing 'Muggle clothes'. Black dress pants and white shirt opened casually at the top two buttons, polished black dress shoes and a matching suit jacket of a material Harry didn't recognise himself but felt positively delightful to run his fingers over. He looked nothing if not dashing. Coupled with his natural confidence and regally handsome good looks, he cut a figure that would certainly draw eyes. Harry tried not to feel too plain beside him, though it was difficult to ignore the obvious.

"You look incredible and you know it." Harry dropped a kiss on his shoulder, nearly missing the brief widening of Draco's smile.

"I know." His long-suffering sigh suggested it was a weighty burden to be so attractive. "Still, dress robes are far more agreeable to my sense of decorum. It feels remarkably casual to be wearing such."

Rolling his eyes, Harry pushed off his back and started towards the door once more. "Then I'm sorry. If I'd known it would bother you that much I would have organised something exclusively Wizarding."

He didn't even have to look over his shoulder to know that Draco followed him, finally detaching himself from his mirror. _Honestly, he spends more time gussying up than should be legal_. "I don't have a problem with it, exactly. It's just not in my particular zone of comfort."

Harry cast a smile over his shoulder as he led his partner from the room. "You know, some of the best experiences you can imagine happen outside of ones comfort zone." He hadn't meant it to be provocative, but the crooked smile Draco gave him suggested he took it as much. "Oh, shut up, Draco. Come on, our ride's already here." And he led the way to the entrance of the manor with a gloating Draco.

The limousine that pulled up at the front of the manor was impressive enough that Draco didn't even raise an argument about the use of Muggle transport. Or at least no further argument. There had been a controversial afternoon preceding their departure when he had sighed and moaned about not using Apparation. Harry had largely ignored him. The champagne offered from the moment the chauffeur bowed them into the back seat, alongside the soft leather and distant, barely perceivable music, was likely another contributing factor to the quelling of Draco's affronted Wizarding pride. He even went so far as to comment on the vintage of the drink as they smoothly pulled away from the manor.

The region of Paris they swept through was beautiful at night. The sun had long since set and a pervasive blanket of darkness settled over the uneven planes of the buildings. And yet as they eased soundlessly from the suburbs of the wealthy and luxurious, it seemed to come alive with artificial lights, wandering night crawlers and yelling drivers muted by the thick windows of their vehicle. Being the warm season that it was, Muggles – and likely a fair few witches and wizards too – were out in the hundreds, enjoying the liberties that came with the setting sun.

Draco maintained a steady flow of conversation throughout the entire trip into the heart of the city. Within minutes of leaving the manor, Harry had requested the chauffeur – a blank faced man with a thin face who introduced himself as Thomas – slide up the partition. A blessed notion, Harry reflected, as Draco was neither hesitant nor wary enough to filter his words for the ears of their Muggle driver, whether it regarded school or the impracticality of Muggle transportation.

As they swum gradually into the depths of the city, Draco's attention became drawn instead to the buildings and passer-bys around them. He looked faintly awed, with a health mixture of horror, at the sheer number of people.

"I don't think there's this many wizards and witches in the entirety of Britain."

Harry turned towards him from his own window. The expression on Draco's face drew a grin of his own, one of many that he'd already been afflicted with that day. "Is that a problem?"

"Not really. It's just a little unexpected."  
"But you've been to the city before, haven't you? Last year, when we were in Paris?"

Draco shook his head, eyes still glued to the window. "I generally kept out of the inner city, especially on weekends. And when I did wander about a bit, it was usually in the absolute dead of night. Just as a precaution, you know."

"Don't look so stupefied, Draco," Harry laughed lightly. "I thought we'd broken you of your Muggle aversion already."

"Never," Draco replied, a hint of a smile in his words.

Harry had initially been terribly nervous of how Draco would respond to his surprise. Somewhere throughout the afternoon, however, that nervousness had faded. For truly, Draco was not the sort of person to be offended if he didn't particularly enjoy something. Rather, he would rearrange the night, or what he was given of the night, so that he did enjoy himself. Asking Draco to spend his time sulking over another person's decisions was about as likely to come to term as convincing Neville to play a game of quidditch. Which was, to say, unfathomable.

There was nothing to worry about, nothing at all to be anxious for. Besides, the simple act of being together was usually adequate enough for Draco. For Harry, too.

When they reached their destination, Draco turned to Harry with his eyebrows raised. "A theatre?"

"Don't look so sceptical. You said you've been to the theatre before and enjoyed it." "Yes. A Wizarding theatre."

'Prejudice, Draco. Watch your prejudice, please. Birthday or not, we are still breaking your habit." Draco only grinned roguishly in reply.

When Thomas opened the door for them once more, Draco climbed out with a grace that would have suggested he traveled in limousines every day. As his gaze swept across face of the theatre, though his sceptism remained Harry was pleased to see it was accompanied by marked curiosity.

It was a modest but gorgeous little building, the _Théâtre de la Rose Rouge_. True to its name, the entire interior seemed to be reminiscent of a rose, a lush, rich scarlet trimmed in gold so pale it was almost white. Grand staircases with elaborate ballistrades, a central carpet so thick that the red-veined marble beneath was barely perceivable. A crowd of formally outfitted men and women could be seen standing or milling at the base of the primary staircase when they entered through double glass doors, bathing in a faint warmth and the golden light of an elaborately bedecked chandelier overhead.

Draco scanned around himself with properly concealed admiration. A faint smile and nod of approval were the only suggestions that he even recognised the grandieur of his surroudings. Harry, despite being the one to make the booking, was more in awe of the Entrance Hall of Hogwarts. He'd hardly been one for extravagence in his childhood, nor had he been particularly exposed to it; bedazzling didn't entice him. Malfoy Manor itself was impressive, and that didn't have a hint of the excessiveness of the theatre.

Leaning into Harry's ear to be heard over the buzzing crowd, Draco whispered, "Well, they meet the standards, these Muggles. Who knew they were so adept at interior design?"

"You did, I had assumed," Harry replied, stretching up on his toes again to be heard. "Haven't I shown you around Paris before?"

Draco shrugged. "Size and attention to detail are to very different things. That Eiffel Tower didn't have any particular eye for appearance's sake. But this is..." His smile resurfaced. "Nice."

Which was a bit of an understatement, even Draco admitted with a wink, but who would know? Maybe Draco truly did see such grandeiur on a more frequent basis and it wasn't quite as excessively astounding for him as it was for Harry. He certainly seemed comfortable enough following the directions of the ushers up the stairs and into their assigned seating. Draco's spouting of admiration, his gesticulations as he pointed to some elaborate design across the theatre stage, certainly seemed to indicate as much. Any comments faded into muteness, however, as the lights finally dimmed.

The play was something of a classic in France; Draco had initially questioned whether _Les Miserables_ was a historical piece, and Harry had assured him that it was based on a fictional work. That didn't seem to detract from the appeal, however. Their prime seating – Harry had, for once, spared no expense on the experience; it was for Draco, so he wouldn't – gave an ideal view of the stage. Perhaps the only drawback was that it was, naturally, entirely in French, though Draco didn't even comment on the fact. Uncharacteristically so, mind. Still, he'd grown remarkably fluent in the Parisian tongue of late, so maybe it simply didn't bother him.

Harry was unprepared for just how much Draco enjoyed the show. It had been a shot in the dark, the decision when he'd made it, but Harry had had a suspicion Draco would appreciate it. The conclusion, the grand finale and raucous applause, had been accompanied with heartfelt clapping from the Draco in turn. At first Harry had thought him to simply be jesting him, of pretending for the sake of sparing Harry's feelings, but the animated discussion he begun at when Thomas once more directed them into the limousine was remarkably sincere.

"I think Cosette was a bit of a nothing character but Jean val Jean... I can admire someone like that."

Hiding a smirk, Harry attempted to look thoughtful and considering. "Is that so? Well, I suppose Cosette was something more of a symbol than anything." Familiar with the storyline from his years at Muggle high school, Harry was less captivated by the story, though he could admit he still thoroughly enjoyed the performance. It allowed him to consider the story in a different light. "I suppose she was like the innocence that was stolen from the rest of the characters. And despite her hardships, her protection under her guardian maintained that innocence."

Frowning as he leant back into the leather seating, Draco nodded thoughtfully. "I guess so. I just didn't ever expect Muggles to be so elaborate and in depth with their storyline and presentation. To say nothing of their storylines. Are you certain it's fiction?" Draco stared at Harry suspiciously.

Harry could only shake his head, smiling. "About as certain as I can be. Grounded in a historical context it may be, the story is fictional."

"Hmm, well... even so. I'm pleasantly surprised by the fact. And they build that entire backdrop without magic, and changed it and everything throughout the show?" At

Harry's nod, he slumped back further in his seat. "Well, I'll be. Maybe they do know something or other about theatre."

Harry elbowed him gently. "Perhaps you'll remember that when you go about insulting Muggle culture in future?"

"Never," Draco replied with a grin, turning to press a kiss onto his cheek. "Though for now, at least, I can appreciate a job well done."

"I think that's an understatement."

Draco conceded as much with a shrug. "What made you choose the theatre, anyway?"

It was Harry's turn to grin. "Well, you do have a flair for drama –"

"Excuse me?"

"- and I thought you'd likely be more appreciative of singers than of dancers."

"And why is that?" Draco smirked indulgently.

Harry replied with a return of a kiss to his cheek. "Because you love to talk so much, obviously."

Draco was in too good a mood to even pretend to be offended. Or maybe that was just because it was so true and Draco was nothing if not proud of the fact.

When they pulled up outside of the hotel, Draco glanced towards Harry in surprise.

"What? You didn't think that was it, did you?" Harry admonished him teasingly, climbing out of the limousine past Thomas. "That's hardly the way to celebrate an eighteenth."

"I still don't understand your emphasis upon 'eighteen'," Draco sighed, following him as they made their way into the lobby.

The hotel itself was as grand as the theatre, though in more subdued tones. Rather like a matured and less youthfully glowing, though still regally impressive, older sibling. Yet even matured, it was fine enough that Draco's satisfactinon made itself known upon his face. He frowned speculatively as he pondered loudly and appreciatively of Harry's unexpected skills in allocating suitable dining.

Shrugging, Harry slipped his hand into his partners before replying in a deliberately quiet voice. "I'm not oblivious to refinement, though of course I'm not as knowledgeable as learned as you are. You deserved something special. Seventeen may be the age of maturity in the Wizarding world, but in Muggle France at least it's eighteen."

"Ah, but you forget that I don't really give much of a toss for cultural norms of different countries."

Another elbow in the side made Draco grunt. He was receiving his supply of them that evening. "When in Rome, Draco."

"Harry, love, you know how I despise assimilation," Draco sniffed indignantly as they approached the maître d'.

"Only when it is of yourself, I'm sure," Harry replied. "Come on, are you hungry? Word is that the duck-egg souffle is really, really good here."

The dining hall was a dim, candlelit room of dark carpets and round tables bedecked in rippling wine-red cloth. At the far end of the room a slightly raised dais held a grand piano, currently being graced by the talented fingers of a serious-faced young man who seemed to be lost in his own music. The rest of the room as a whole was muted, despite being nearly full. A modest and respectable hush, the hush that entailed privacy in the midst of company. Even the constant flow of graceful waiters wielding covered dishes barely made a sound as they passed through the cleverly concealed kitchen doors in the distant corner.

After being relieved of their coats, they followed the tuxedo-clad maitre d' to a two-seater table. It said something of the setting that neither dubious glances nor quizzical stares were sent their way. Two young men – two men together – and barely older than teens themselves was hardly to be expected in such expensive holdings. Harry knew that Muggles shared a slightly different view on the sort of relationship that he and Draco shared to that of wizards, but not a second glance was given. It was comforting, even with the knowledge that it was likely the exorbitant cost of their dining that entitled them to as much.

All in all, it was a calming sit-down meal, relaxing and comfortable in a way that left Harry hesitant to suggest they depart from the dark embrace of the wide room. True to his word, the souffle was splendid, accompanied by a white riesling and topped by a decadent fondue of all things that left them both quite happy to remain in the quiet ambiance, talking quietly and idly as their dinner settled. It was different to their usual weekends – obviously – but Harry found the unusual setting and intimacy of the refined dining room a compelling stage. It seemed to entice conversation like a warm companion, and Harry was largely unsurprised when a glance towards an elaborate clock of coiled filigree above the exit indicated it to be nearly eleven o'clock.

They were nearly the last in the room, save for a young man and woman at the opposite wall who seemed more inclined to fall into each others eyes than notice their surroundings. Draco picked idly at the remaining strawberries of their dessert, a gentle smile on his lips. Their conversation had drawn to a natural close, but it left neither one of their fidgeting awkwardly. The simple comfort of being in one another's presence was conversation enough.

 _I'm glad_ , Harry thought idly, the recurring smile that had been afflicting him all evening arising once more as he beheld Draco's relaxed expression, smiling himself as his eyes drifted lazily around the room. _I hope he enjoyed himself. I think he did._ Never having to plan a birthday before in his life, the self-consciousness, the worry of providing something pleasing, had been hounding him for weeks. _I needn't have worried, truly... He is happy._

Draoc brought him out of his musings with a purposeful shift in his chair. "Harry?"

"Hmm?"

Nodding towards the other end of the room, Draco turned his glance upon him. "Will you play something?"

Turning towards the object of Draco's focus, Harry uttered a huff of laughter and shook his head. "I hardly think I'm good enough."

"What, you?" Draco clicked his tongue in exaggerated disbelief. "You, who managed to keep pace with sixth year students after barely three months of schooling, you don't think that after nearly a year of practicing piano that you're not good enough?"

Harry shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "I'm not saying it to be humble or anything. I mean, I can play, but I'm nothing special. I've a fair ear for music, but I'm appalling at composing. Lacking in creativity or some such," he finished with a rueful smile.

"I didn't ask for anything special," Draco replied. Wiping his hands on the linen napkin, he rose to his feet and held out a hand to Harry. "You've never let me hear you play before. And it's not as though anyone is really around to hear you. Curb your bashfulness for once."

Harry could only cede to that sentiment. He doubted that the remaining two diners were aware enough of their surroundings to have realised that the performing pianist had finished for the night. Admitting defeat, Harry took Draco's proffered hand and allowed himself to be tugged towards the dais.

It was a beautiful instrument. Even with his limited experience with playing, and similarly limited knowledge of pianos, Harry could tell it was an expensive and and exquisite piece. Inky black, the half-raised lid allowed a glimpse of strings that appeared to be spun from gold. The dim lighting of the room reflected off the smooth, shining surface in a pool of glowing orbs. The pristine keys were so polished they glistening with a mirroring gleam. Every smooth line, down to the bronze pedals, bespoke refinement and elegance. Harry was almost nervous to ease himself onto the low, flat and comparatively plain stool.

"What should I play?"

Draco shrugged, leaning with his back to the piano and half-turning over his shoulder towards him. "I leave it up to your expert opinion." He folded his arms, a smile curling his lips. "As I seem to recall, I've spoken of my own rather disastrous experience in music."

Harry laughed faintly at the memory. The image of a child-Draco, smacking the living daylights out of a his piano with a chair leg was as horrifying as it was amusing. Apparently, he hadn't been quite as taken with music in his early years as he he had with oration.

With a smile still playing upon his slips, Harry dropped his fingers to the piano keys and begun to play. The first song that came to mind was a personal favourite, Muggle, and one he'd only very recently become acquainted with. Within moments, the jovial rhythm of Bach's _Solfeggietto_ in C Minor was ringing merrily throughout the dining hall, bringing life to the otherwise still setting of the dining hall.

It was only a short piece, and as his fingers stilled on the keys once more Harry glanced towards Draco. His partner was fixing him with a faintly amused stare, one eyebrow raised.

"What?"

"How in Merlin's name do you even move your fingers that fast?"

Harry ducked his head bashfully. Well, maybe it had been a bit of a start for a first performance. "It's easier than it looks, when you pick it up the finger pattern."

"I'm sure," Draco drawled, slouching once more onto the piano. "It's very good, though. I thought you would have been terrible from the way you always talk about Neville being 'so much more musically adept' than you."

Harry chewed his slip in an attempt to quell the flush of embarrassment that arose under Draco's back-handed praise. Dropping his fingers to the keys once more, he opted for falling into the familiar melody of _Fur Elise_. Draco's amused slump eased slightly as he tilted his head back, listening to the music.

"I think I've heard of this one before..."

Barely glancing up from the keys, Harry gave a small smile. "I should think so. Just about everyone in the Western world has heard of this tune. Many of Beethoven's works are well known even by those with no musical interest."

"Known the Muggle world, maybe," Draco murmured, but there was no resentment or even condescension to his tone.

"What sort of musicians do you like, then?"

Harry could just make out Draco's eyes sliding closed from his periphery. "I don't know... Jarmonte, maybe? He was fairly renowned from his work about six hundred years ago, I think. Or Yellan? Elubenos' still around I think, though she must be nearly a skeleton for how old she is; must use some sort of deageing potion, I'd wager." Turning lazily towards Harry, he opened one eye. "She's the one that did all of those shows with that singer, Kaffstoff."

Nodding slowly, Harry drew to the end of Beethoven's piece and slipped easily into his favourite of Elubenos'. Calming, lilting, it gave nothing if not the impression of a warm, moonlit evening illuminated only by the natural lights and the glimmer of stars across the black blanket of night. _Breve Parpadeo_ , Madame Almeera called it. It was one of the _Musique et Drame_ teacher's favourite as well. Relatively easy to master, it was one of the first of the grade five pieces he'd learnt. It could have been his imagination, but to Harry it felt just faintly magical. Maybe all Wizarding songs carried that same hint of the surreal.

Approaching the chorus, the thrumming tendrils of resonance vibrated through his fingers more ardently. It was a shame, really, that he was rather incompetent at singing, for the vocals were truly...

_"I still hold on tight to each flickering moment,_   
_For to loosen my grasp would be to set her free._

_"But though for freedom she yearns,_   
_She will crumble beneath the weight of the world,_

_"So I still hold her tight to shelter from the storm._   
_Revel, for each flickering moment."_

Harry faltered briefly in his playing as Draco's voice murmured nearly inaudibly through the vibrations of music. Picking it up once more, his eyes drifted towards where he stood, head tilted back slightly once more with eyes resting peacefully closed. The rise of the chorus sounding brought a gentle repeat of the lulling words, the hushed voice. It was deep, resonating, with a raw, untrained beauty that seemed somehow unexpected yet peculiarly suited to Draco.

When he finally finished the piece, Harry let his hands drop into his lap. Tilting his head towards Draco, he marveled that his partner, for all that he had known him for nearly two years, had possessed this skill that he knew nothing about. And yet, far from feeling resentment towards the kept secret, Harry instead felt wonder that, even as he knew him so well, there were still hidden treasures yet to be unearthed. Small things, seemingly inconsequential things, that could only lead to him loving Draco all the more.

As Draco turned slowly towards him, eyelids sliding open to reveal a sparkling warmth in their deep greyness, Harry felt a wave of love well within him for the the young man who was his partner. The decision he'd been mulling over all night seemed already made for him. It wasn't daunting anymore in the least.

_I truly do love him. And really, if I were to pick a moment, I would choose tonight._

* * *

It was nearly midnight when Draco followed Harry through the door into the hotel suite. Stepping onto thick, pale carpets, he felt a smile curl his lips.

Like so often tonight, he's done it again. _How well Harry knows me._

Their night had been perfect; intimate, yet not bereft of amusements that were exciting not only for their refinement and unexpectedness. Draco couldn't deny that he had enjoyed the play – heartily enjoyed – and their subsequent dining rivalled the best he'd had in the Wizarding world. Though his condescension towards Muggles was generally little more than a farce these days, he could admit that there was an inclination towards of belief in Wizarding superiority. It was only to be expected, he knew; he'd been raised with such beliefs. Yet every time Harry showed him more of the Muggle world, the world he had grown up in, the foundations of such beliefs wavered ever more noticeably.

The hotel added it's own sway, and the suite just as much. A double room of lounging and sleeping quarters, the paleness of the walls and floors contrasted simply yet impressively with rich satin bed sheets of a dark navy, matching couches that simply begged to be used, and smoothly polished cabinets of ebony. Even Draco's disdain for one of those Muggle televisions – a ridiculously big one – couldn't put a dampener on the high-class impression of the ensemble.

Slipping his jacket off, he hung it neatly on one of the dutifully placed hooks beside the door and turned to Harry. His partner was gazing about the room, his own jacket folded in his arms, as though assessing it for its serviceability. Draco took the moment to simply look upon him, as he had so often that night.

Fitted outfits truly did suit him so well, clinging to the lines of his slim form and leaving little to the imagination. He'd dressed to match Draco, though Draco could hardly compare them both. He knew he looked smart in Muggle dress – of course he did; why wouldn't he? – but there was something different and entirely appealing about Harry. Draco could hardly keep his eyes from him, his delicate features that suited the equally

delicate glasses so well, the intricate coil of braid falling over his shoulder, small hands and slender fingers that Draco had just witnessed breathe life into the stagnant coldness of the piano downstairs. Had _Les Miserables_ been any less enjoyable and he was certain he wouldn't have been able to draw his eyes away from him.

It was only when Harry shifted uncomfortably that Draco realised he was aware of his silent observation. Yet the slight flush was hardly as deep as that which usually afflicted him when under intense scrutiny. Stepping towards Draco, he fiddled idly with his jacket, swapping it between arms unnecessarily.

Before he could speak, Draco broke the silence. It seemed important that he just _say_ it, just so that Harry knew. "Harry, you've likely already realised, but I had a truly wonderful evening." He smiled, taking the final step between them and cupping his hand around Harry's cheek. "I couldn't imagine a better birthday. Or with better company. Thank you." And with that said, he leant forwards and pressed a kiss upon Harry's lips.

It was soft, and gentle, and faintly sweet from their fondue. And yet it ended to quickly when Harry pulled his head away minutely. Draco frowned questioningly, only to lean away himself at the look of intense honesty in Harry's eyes.

"Harry, what...?"

"Draco." The voice was quiet, barely a whisper, yet filled with the same intensity as Harry's gaze. It was enough to still Draco's tongue instantly. "Draco, will you sleep with me?"

Of all the things to anticipate spilling from Harry's mouth, that had not been one of them. Draco felt his breath catch, his mind short incredulously, and the only word that could stutter from his mouth was "What?"

A small smile lifted the corners of Harry's mouth. "I'm asking, because I know you wouldn't. Will you sleep with me?"

No, it definitely hadn't been a trick of his ears, of wishful thinking. Curling the fingers still holding Harry's cheek, Draco struggled with a swallow. "I didn't think you'd want..."

Harry's smile widened slightly, faintly coy. "Draco, I have wanted to. With you. I just haven't... been able to." He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and raising a hand to press against the fingers that held his cheek. "Thank you for waiting. I'm sorry it took so long."

It was a marvel, truly, this quietly confident young man before him. Draco had never seen this side of Harry before, and it swept his feet out from underneath him. Or, it would have, had they not been rooted so firmly, weighted so heavily, to the ground. _Bloody hell, I'm like a blushing virgin... How horribly embarrassing. And yet..._ Draco couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. It was almost too miraculous to comprehend.

But Harry was staring at him, that steady intensity unwavering in his green eyes. Draco was captivated; the words slipped out of his mouth unawares. "You have no idea how much I want to say yes."

"But?"

"But, " and Draco took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he brought his free hand to cup Harry's other cheek and dropped his forehead to the fringed brow, "I'm scared. I don't want to hurt you." It was unexpectedly easy to say those words.

Gentle fingers stroked through his hair with such tenderness that heDraco opened his eyes once more. Harry was smiling gently, and perhaps it was simply how closely they now stood but Draco considered he saw a faint flicker of uneasiness in those deep, wide eyes. "Thank you, Draco, but... I'm scared too. And that doesn't mean I don't want to." Soft lips pressed against Draco's. "Will you say yes? Can we try?"

What could Draco do but agree? There was only so much a man could take. Drawing a ragged breath, Draco nodded. "Yes. God, yes." He didn't have to look to know that Harry's smile deepened. He could feel the radiance like a shining beacon of warmth.

Leaning back slightly, hands still cradling Harry's face, he drew another steadying breath. "I think, though, that I, um... what do you... how did you want to...?" He trailed off awkwardly, feeling a faint flush rise in his own cheeks. It was only made deeper by the breathy laugh Harry uttered. Mortification rising, Draco would have scowled at Harry at any other time had he been anyone else, except that he wasn't. It was Harry, and under the radiant warmth of that smile and the sudden realisation that relief was what spread it so widely, Draco felt his own grin resurface. "Tease me and I'll hex you."

Harry shook his head and struggled to get a hold of his silent laughter. "I'm sorry, I think I'm just nervous. I didn't mean to." He bit his bottom lip to stem his amusement. "That was mean."

"Not mean, just, well." Draco shrugged, glancing to the side to escape the mixture of nervousness and merriment in Harry's stare. "Just very appropriate. Maybe a little too appropriate. I honestly don't really know what I'm doing. I mean, I've read books, but there's only so much that they can tell. And, " he took another deep breath. "The main thing I've realised is that it's really not at all like sex between a man and a woman. It's so much more..."

"Complicated?"

"Yes. Yes, you could say that." The constant warmth in Draco's cheeks didn't help with his enunciation. The topic was strangely awkward, given how serious and genuine the subject. And though he had so desperately desired to consumate their love, Draco was nothing if not daunted by what he'd read. It was more complicated, and he'd felt something akin to terror upon reading the various anecdotes on 'preparation' and 'stimulation'. Not that it wasn't helpful, he just hadn't quite expected that there was so much to it. Still, he'd learnt a lot of the theory, enough to warrant asking some important questions. "Which do you...? I mean, would you prefer...?" _Why is it so bloody difficult to say?!_

Harry stared at him blankly, blinking slightly before comprehension dawned. "Oh, you mean -?"

"Yes, I mean..." And dammit, Harry was struggling not to laugh again. Draco would have turned away in frustration as well as embarrassment had he not known it for what it was; despite his apparent confidence, nervousness was evident in Harry's eyes. It just seemed to be expressing itself with very uncharacteristic bubbliness. He could only wait for Harry to quell the near-hysterical merriment to reply.

When it did, Harry met his eyes with a loving fondness that eradicating any lingering feelings of affront. "You're freaking out, aren't you?"

Draco shook his head in denial, though he doubted it fooled either of them. "Not freaking out, no, but I think we can both acknowledge our mutual anxieties."

"Then let's acknowledge them," Harry said simply. He shrugged. "Don't think about the bad things that could happen, Draco. Focus on the good." Patting the hands that held his cheeks, Harry gently extricated himself from Draco's grasp. "You don't even have think at all, Draco. Just let me do it."

"But..."

"Just give me a few minutes, okay?" And with a brief kiss, Harry turned and slipped into the bedroom. Or at least through the bedroom and into the bathroom that Draco hadn't noticed before, so perfectly camouflaged was the door to its surrounding walls. There was a flicking noise preceding yellow-white light spilling across the carpet before Harry closed the door with a gentle click. Moments later, the muted sound of a shower thrummed through the thick door.

Just like that. Just like that and Harry was taking care of it. Draco was ashamed to feel an upwelling of relief, but he couldn't deny it. He knew he was out of his depth, in this context at least, and though he struggled to think about the how, Harry did not. Sighing heavily, he slipped his shoes off, placing them beside the front door to the suite, and padded into the bedroom. The mattress was soft and thick, sinking beneath his weight as he settled onto the edge. Silence, save for the distant hiss of water hitting tiled floors, spread throughout the room.

Initially, it was numbness that gripped him. Then nervousness, a nervousness Draco hadn't felt since he'd been with Pansy all those years ago, and even then it felt different somehow. Deeper, and exponentially vaster. Then came the guilt – _how could he actually be doing this? What kind of a monster was he to do this after everything Harry had been through?_ – then the wonder. Harry had actually asked him, asked him, because he wanted him. And despite the lingering guilt, Draco knew that he had never wanted anything more profoundly in his life. Wanted anyone more.

By the time the shower silenced, Draco had fallen into a floating cloud of thought. A cloud that immediately dissipated when the door creaked open and Harry half peered out.

All of the nervous bubbliness was gone, leaving only the intensity, the seriousness, that seemed far too mature for a seventeen year old. But it wasn't only that which caught Draco's eye, stilled his breath in his throat. Barely perceiving the door as it swung open, Draco was rendered speechless. And for once, he didn't even care.

They'd never shared moments of absolute intimacy before, and so Draco had never seen Harry naked before. The memory would stay with him forever; slender, pale limbs, the soft curves that were so different to a woman's yet impossibly even more beautiful. The faint sheen of residual water glistened upon his skin, setting it alight in a glow under the whiteness of the bathroom light behind him. His hair was loose, dripping slightly from dampness and curling across his bare shoulders.

There were scars. Draco knew this, even though he hadn't seen them all. Pale scars, faded with time, that criss-crossed his skin in broken patterns. Yet even they were

somehow beautiful, despite knowing from where they'd came. Draco hardly saw them for the breathtaking canvas they streaked across. But more than the beauty of his skin, the glory of each line and every shadow, was the gentle hesitancy in his eyes, freed from their glasses. A desperate desire for confidence warring against his natural uncertainty.

The thought of ' _nothing can possibly be more perfect_ ' was immediately disproved as the words "You're beautiful" slipped from his lips and a flush flooded Harry's pale cheeks. Draco knew that that was perfection.

Later, Draco would remember the rest of the night in broken pieces of continued perfection. The silent movements of Harry stepping across the bedroom, wrapping his shower-warmed arms around Draco's neck and sinking into a kiss. Somehow his clothes were shed and they fell, clinging to one another, upon the impossibly soft mattress.

Hands had never been more necessary, and Draco suddenly found he didn't have enough of them. Aching to touch every inch of Harry's body, fingers caressing soft, smooth skin just as he felt the returning inquisitive touches dancing across his own arms, his legs, shoulders and chest. Holding that dear face to pepper it with kisses and entwining tongues ferociously until they both struggled for breath. It was warm, hot even, and the taste of lust, the scent of passion, hung in their air.

But above all... When Harry pushed him onto his back, had straddled his hips and settled himself above Draco's arousal. When his small fingers slid along his length, coated in cool, conjured wetness and he couldn't help but groan. When he had – _oh gods_ – when he'd raised himself slightly onto his knees, concentration at odds with the breathlessness and flushing of cheeks, and sunk down upon Draco's hardness and there had been just _so much heat, the tightness, the warmth. The perfection._

Draco had never experienced the like before. For there was nothing to compare to making love with one's soul mate, with his most loved person in the entirety of the world. He was sure that potent adoration had surely been pouring from his skin as he gazed upon his partner, his lover, his _heart,_ as he rode him in steady undulations, each twist of hips drawing an invigorating lance of pleasure to his brain, sending sparks dancing across his eyes. Bucking beneath Harry's slender form, his hands grasped desperately on clenching thighs as he pounded and thrust and writhed in those bewitching moments. The only sounds in the room were their harsh pants, the wanton moans, yet even they were drowned out by the rushing of blood in his ears when Draco came in a sharp cry and torrent of cascading pleasure.

Nothing could ever compare.

It was inconsequential, how long it lasted. Time didn't matter, not in that grand hotel room with its contrasting colours, its Muggle television and the impressive views that would undoubtedly be seen from the beyond the curtained windows. Draco lost himself in Harry, in the sheer ardour of lovemaking as they clung to one another time and time again. Every ounce of pent up passion, the waiting that had hardly seemed of consequence before, was released in a glorious climax of coupling.

What could have been days or only hours later, Draco curled in exhaustion around his partner, fingers stroking though his hair. He didn't have to look to know that Harry had fallen to sleep; the soft, shallow breaths brushing against the skin of his throat was indication enough. Closing his eyes, he was unsurprised to feel the smile blossom across his cheeks. Happinness was a word not nearly large enough to encompass that which he felt.

Drawing Harry even closer into his arms, Draco felt himself slip into the darkness of slumber. For what greater lullaby could there be than the steady breathing of one's soul mate as they inched unconsciously closer into one another's arms? Exhaustion drew him into a world of dreams, yet even the wonders of the imagination paled in comparison to reality.


	10. And Change

Summer was unpleasant in every European city, whether it was sweltering hot, thickly humid or paradoxically cold. That was what Severus thought. Even in the relative coolness of the shaded outdoors at the Malfoy's Parisian Manor, he felt the heat simmering across his skin as though he sat before an open fireplace. True, the long sleeves and high neck of his black robe likely didn't help the matter much, but he could hardly deign to dress in a less than seemly fashion simply because of the weather.

Still, there was only so much Cooling Charms could do in the face of the glaring force of the sun, and Severus would be damned if he was going to go inside to skulk behind closed curtains while Narcissa and the boys lazed outdoors.

For in spite of the heat, Severus was actually quite enjoying the scenery of the Manor's grounds. Even after visiting for nearly two weeks he found that the view from the hut-like pergola was peacefully splendid. Set on an acreage, one of the largest that was still considered a part of Paris, the view from the back of the manor was of a tamed garden of multi-hued flowers that dribbled gradually into the a broad expanse of rich, vibrant greenery. Bereft of trees until the very outskirts of the residence, the line of forest faded into shadows before hitting the outer wall.

It was a peaceful scene. The Muggles were kept at a distance by both the walls and the intimidation factor of the expensive property. It was like a little world of its own, and so far removed from Hogwarts and the tiresome strain of teaching. Peaceful, save for…

Draco's echoing laughter could be heard over the marked distance he stood with Potter across the grounds. But even that was nearly drowned out by the gunning of a powered engine, resounding over the flat plains of grass like a Muggle jet engine. Had it not been so entirely unexpected the first time he had heard it, devoid of the Muffling Charms of a Wizarding model, Severus was sure he would have blasted the motorbike into smithereens the moment he stepped out of the door.

It was the thirty-first of July, and Draco and Narcissa had been living in Paris for a full two weeks now. Naturally, wherever Draco went the Potter boy followed, and vice versa. Severus had to question sometimes whether there was a Sticking Charm affixed to their almost permanently joined hands for they seemed largely incapable of detaching their fingers from one another.

Draco had completed his N.E. with flying colours, topping the school with only Granger as his primary competitor and impressively making the records for the highest mark in Ancient Runes in three decades. Severus had been secretly proud of his godson's efforts; more than that, the boy – young man, really – had seemed hardly fazed at all by the exams. Almost relaxed, even. So much that Severus had been worried before he'd drilled each of the boy's teachers to determine that he hadn't simply given up hope in his studies entirely.

Far be it from 'giving up', Draco had cruised through each subject. Albeit Charms, really, and even then his unexpected yet bountiful relations with Granger had picked up the slack in that area. Thank Merlin that was the only thing he seemed to have assimilated from the girl. The tiresome Gryffindor seemed to work herself only further and further into a frazzled mess as the exams loomed with increasing foreboding.

Not Draco. The boy had rarely been one to stress over exams, but even so he took the N.E. with a surprisingly blasé attitude. He didn't even appear overly self-satisfied with his performance. Satisfied, yes, but not to the degree Severus had expected from the marks he achieved. It was as though he had developed a healthy balance of priorities, that his education was on par or even less important than other aspects of his current life. It didn't take a genius to figure out what such other aspects were.

Severus could have been concerned as to the influence of Potter on his godson. He knew that to do so was probably intruding too much into Draco's life, that Draco didn't need nor want him to fill the static hole that Lucius had left behind with his passing. And he wasn't, not really. But some things became concerning to him nevertheless. He couldn't help it; Severus had been spending more and more time with Draco, both through his schooling and externally through his relations with Narcissa. It just seemed to happen that he began to feel more protective of him.

And yet despite his potential concerns, Potter seemed to genuinely have nothing but a positive influence on Draco. In one of his 'interrogations' as Draco had called them, the young Malfoy had been discussing his desire to visit Harry that weekend despite N.E. being the very next week. Severus hadn't even had to say anything before his fears were alleviated.

"Harry forbade me from leave school. He said, and I quote, 'that he doesn't want to be responsible for destroying my future to travel eight hours between campuses'." Draco had worn a forlorn expression that Severus had never seen before, though brightened up moments later. "But he said that if I write up a study timetable for the weekend then he'll come and visit me."

Severus had to fight to hold back his surprise. He hadn't expected anyone could truly force Draco to do something he didn't want to. Any attempts he'd made had left the boy making half-hearted attempts and dragging his feet the entire way. "And you intend to stick to this schedule, even with Potter's visit?"

Draco shrugged. "You don't know Harry very well. If I tried to skive off studying… well, Harry would be more likely to ignore me for the day and shut himself in a book than comply with any suggestions on my part." And the distant smile that Draco gave was purely sickening to behold.

 _How very un-Malfoy_.

Yet, at least one thing he'd claimed was true. Severus didn't know Harry Potter at all, really. His initial dislike for the boy two years prior had been based purely upon his very distinct connection to the Potter Severus had known from his youth. Even Severus could consider reflectively that such ferocious loathing of the boy had been irrational. Harry Potter was not his father. Not that Severus woudl admit it aloud. Potter Junior was far removed from the hated memory of James. If anything, he was more reminiscent of his mother.

And therein lay the crux of the matter. Even after all these years, even after her death and even before then, Severus loved Lily Evans. She'd been his first childhood friend, his first school friend, and the first girl he had ever loved. He had to admit that a big part of his persisting hatred for James Potter was resentment over her favouring the cursed Gryffindor bastard. It was an undying grudge that he couldn't shrug off, no matter how long overdue their resolution was. And it would likely remain stagnant, given that neither Lily nor James were around to make amends with.

Severus was initially repelled from the younger Potter by the superficial glimpse of James he'd had upon first beholding him. That had faded with familiarity, for truly the boy resembled Lily as much as he did his father. And when that mask, fabricated only by Severus himself, had been shed, it was far more difficult to hate the boy. There was not even the argument of the boy's Gryffindor status to despise; Dumbledore had professed that he "couldn't be sorted".

No, Severus knew next to nothing about Harry Potter. He had his suspicions about the boy's past – suspicions that tight lips and broken admissions from Narcissa enforced – that it had been less than coddling. Less than neutral, even. But the boy's past was not the least of it. His magic, for one, was a mystery, one which even hearing tails through Draco, Narcissa and half of the Hogwarts populace continued to make little sense of. There was his quietness that was broken only rarely by horrifyingly explosive expressions of pain, anger or sadness, only rarely gleaned but about as unnoticeable as an earthquake. Then there had been the death of Voldemort…

Still a mystery, that boy, even after two years of superficially knowing him. And now, such a small thing but equally unexpected, said boy was powering across the open grasses of the Manor backyard on the back of a sleek, black motorbike. Riding it with skill, too, as though he'd done so many times before. And enjoying it, from the smile upon his face. Severus remembered when the boy hadn't smiled. How much had changed.

"Really, a motorbike?"

Narcissa, reclining idly at his side on her deck chair and turning slowly through the pages of her book, glanced up. A smile spread across her face as she observed her young son and his lover. Draco was calling something out to Potter, yelling in an indiscernible cry that was broken by laughter and the gunning of the bike's motor. "Apparently Draco has wanted to get it for him for a while now."

"Why in Merlin's name would he want to do that?"

Shrugging, Narcissa turned towards him. The smile that graced her face was beautiful in its sincerity. Those first months of her recovery the previous year had seen so little of her blossoming radiance. She looked… well. Healthy. Though that was an understatement. The Malfoy widow radiated good health in a way that seemed to laugh in the face of her illness and recovery not eighteen months before. The sickly thinness had faded with time, a rich glow returning to her skin. Severus suspected that it had much to do with her return back to her psychological studies. Being idle didn't suit Narcissa, not in the aftermath of her husband's death. Severus did what he could to dampen the pain that still lingered, that would likely continue to linger unshakeably, but he knew he was not entirely successful. He cared for Narcissa, cared for her deeply and more than simply as a friend, or the friend of her late husband as he had been. It was with regret that he knew there was absolutely nothing he could do to eradicate the dregs of insatiable longing she felt for the man passed.

Though the move to France seemed to be doing a wonderful job of it lessening it. Severus had to wonder at that, too. At first he had feared it as only selfishness on Potter's part that he refused so adamantly to return to Britain and so forced the two remaining Malfoys to trail after him like loyal hounds. It had sparked the previously banished resentment once more, though that had quickly died in the last two weeks. Draco seemed positively delighted to be in Paris, and not only because it meant he was closer to Harry. Almost too close, Severus considered; he was spending only weekends at the Manor and would fill the rest of his residency at Beauxbatons' sister town of _Rivierie Ville_. Apparently his new master, Calvinn Burisque, reportedly felt it a wonderful idea to be so close to such a delicious source of knowledge that was the academy. The Headmistress had been surprisingly receptive to Draco's intrusion. Severus suspected it to be at least in part due to the request of their own Runes teacher. Though he didn't know the woman personally, scholars of Ancient Runes seemed to have an odd connection with one another. They were like a race unto themselves.

Narcissa similarly flourished in their new residency. She had put in for a transfer to the _Université d'Esprit Magique_ and been accepted with open arms. Really, France seemed to clutch at any proffered magical professionals that drifted their way. Students, too, if their eagerness to get their hands upon Potter and Longbottom was any indication. Severus could only be thankful that Draco hadn't decided to up and leave to follow his lover. Narcissa hadn't been in a state for moving herself at the time, and it would have torn her apart to be so distant from her son.

"Harry is a surprising young man. I never saw him as one to favour such a hobby, but evidently he seeks to astound me. Draco claims he's rather adept at flying, too."

"Is that so?" Severus raised an eyebrow. He'd never seen the boy fly. "I'm surprised that Draco hasn't coaxed him into spending half of his time in the air these holidays."

Narcissa laughed quietly, a sweet, serene laugh that did nothing to shake the impression of her stateliness. "I don't think Draco could get Harry to do anything he didn't want to." Her smile suggested she was nothing but amused at the prospect.

"Yes, Draco alluded to as much." Severus turned back to the pair, now even more distant from the pergola Narcissa and he shaded under. Potter appeared to be encouraging Draco into riding the bike and from Draco's body language it appeared he was eager yet appropriately wary of doing so. It didn't last long, however, as within moments the taller boy had swung a leg over the back of the seat, affixed a tight hold around Potter's waist, and the bike was racing with incredible speed once more. "An odd couple they make, the two of them. I could not have foreseen Draco to pursue such a relationship two years ago."

Cocking her head, Narcissa trained her own eyes upon the two boys. A thoughtful expression tightened her brow. "I couldn't agree more, though I must say it cheers me greatly to see him so happy. Although," she paused, closing the book in her lap, "it does worry me, at times."

Frowning himself, Severus shifted to gaze at her profile once more. "What could possibly worry you? I've hardly heard a negative word or brief argument exchanged between them since they announced their relationship."

It was true. Save for the witty banter and scolding attitude that Potter seemed to adopt at times around Draco when they considered themselves in relative privacy, he could not pinpoint a single bump in their relationship. It was almost eerily perfect.

"And that's what I'm worried about." Narcissa sighed, dropping her gaze to her hands folded in her lap. "I worry that this easiness will subside eventually, and will leave them both heartbroken. Surely such intensity cannot be maintained for so long without snapping. They spend as much time together as humanly possible, and yet even after so long with such heat they do not tire of one another's company. Not even for a moment."

Severus shifted uncomfortably. Narcissa frequently came to him to discuss her son – for who else could she talk to? – and though it secretly gladdened him, he couldn't help feeling that he was intruding upon foreign territory. "Perhaps not, but we can only wait and see. I do believe that there is more to their relationship than solely passion." And he did, if only because Draco had told him so. According to him, Potter was as much his best friend as his lover, even something of a brotherly figure of sorts, though Severus didn't want to pursue the implications of that particular suggestion too far.

"I can only agree with that," Narcissa nodded, a slight smile returning to her face. "It delights me to see my son find his soul mate so young, for that is surely what they are. And yet… it almost seems to perfect."

"Is there possibly such a thing as too perfect?"

A brief sadness flickered across Narcissa's eyes. "I am not sure that a relationship can survive purely upon positivity. There needs to be lows as well as highs, to reaffirm the strength of their bond. In every relationship." She dropped her gaze once more, and Severus could almost see her mind fade towards memories of Lucius.

Striving to dispel the shadowing scene, Severus cleared his throat. "I have to admit, I was surprised that Draco hasn't infuriated Potter into disgruntlement. If I recall, he was rather adept at eliciting such a response in his younger years." As Narcissa smiled into her lap, he felt his wariness ease. "But you believe it would be better that they fought?"

"I… don't believe that constant argument would be better. But it may be well for their relationship if they did, at least every so often. I know Draco cares dearly for Harry, but I fear he may overlook arising issues for fear of initiating an argument and risking it falling into disrepair." She raised one shoulder in a slight shrug. "So yes, perhaps just one fight every now and again."

Severus was not so sure. Personally, he thrived upon debate. It was one of the reasons he felt incapable of maintaining a cordial attitude towards his students, even those in younger years. N.E.W.T students took it with a grain of salt, and even replied in kind if they possessed the courage to face his wrath. Not that he was every truly wrathful, unless said students resorted to rudeness. Who didn't love a good argument?

But with Draco and Potter… He was sure he wasn't the only one who remembered their short-lived but explosive fight in the second half of Draco's sixth year. Another instance where Potter's carefully contained emotions had erupted in a torrential wave. Students' arguing, even brawling, was not an uncommon affair at Hogwarts. It was only natural that a horde of hormone-driven teens would have little control over their emotions. Draco and Potter had not even raised fists against one another, and had barely raised their voices in their brief argument. What _had_ made the incident so memorable, however, was the shockwave that sprung from it.

A magical shockwave, of course, and though Severus was certain that most of the students had felt it, it was likely simply a sense of foreboding and wariness that arose from hearing the 'joined at the hip' pair of boys yelling at one another. For the teachers, and the more sensitive of the students, the moment Potter had raised his voice a static jolt of magical energy had zapped them all almost painfully. The ferocious whiplash of accidental magic was untethered and yet purposeless; instead of wreaking destruction, it simply manifested in a release of potent energy that left little lasting effect save that of being buffeted by a rather forceful wind.

It had raised more than a few eyebrows and with unspoken agreement the teachers present at the meal, those that had witnessed the cause of such an explosion, had thenceforth watched Potter carefully for signs of distress. It wouldn't do to have such magic flung about _with_ purpose. He was surprisingly strong, the boy.

"I… am not entirely certain that such would be a good thing," Severus murmured. He felt Narcissa glance towards him questioningly but kept his eyes upon the motorbike that was drawing nearer at that same ridiculously dangerous speed. "Perhaps they've simply established a happy medium, tested their boundaries and know each other's limits. Constructive argument is beneficial, but to descend into mindless aggression is fruitless."

Narcissa was silent for a moment before answering. "Why do I get the impression you know something you are not telling me?"

"It is hardly consequential, Narcissa. Merely my personal opinion."

"Driven by fact, I've no doubt."

Severus felt a rare smile twitch his lips. The woman beside him was one of a very few that could elicit such a response. "Undoubtedly, of course."

Perhaps Narcissa would have replied, except that in that moment the motorbike skidded to a halt barely a dozen feet from the pergola. Severus was only mildly surprised to see Draco effectively clinging to Potter as the smaller boy directed the bike with smooth motions – although, 'clinging' may be too harsh a word. He hardly looked nervous for the speed they'd been travelling, even with the Pillowing Charms padded invisibly around them. Both boys were grinning widely, a flush to their cheeks and windswept hair that Severus was sure Draco would never have deemed appropriate to succumb to in the past. Pre-Potter period, he was coming to think of it as. Their enthusiasm was infectious, unfortunately, and despite himself Severus felt that contented twitch turn up the corners of his mouth once more.

Flinging themselves off the seat, Potter pausing only briefly to adjust the stand, Draco led them both from the glaring sun. They were both panting faintly from exertion and beaming with sheer youthful excitement. The expressions, Severus reflected idly, would have looked strange on both of their faces two years ago.

"That was truly fantastic," Draco breathed, sharing a smile with Potter. "And it's not even modified in the slightest from the Muggle bike."

Severus raised his eyebrows at that. _So he has finally learned to appreciate the vast majority of the world's inhabitants and their non-Magical capabilities? There may be hope for him yet_.

"Where did you develop such an interest in motorbikes, Harry?" Narcissa asked with genuine curiosity.

Potter shrugged, casting a strangely loving glance at the vehicle propped immobile behind him. "When I lived with Stephen, it sort of just happened. He worked with cars, so had a bit of a thing for them."

Narcissa's face darkened nearly imperceptibly. She hid it well, maintaining her apparent curiosity. "I never would have expected. I'm sure Draco would love to learn from you. You seemed to be enjoying yourself." She smiled at them both, though it was faintly strained.

Potter seemed to notice, even if Draco didn't. His face flashed briefly in concern before clearing. "It's wonderful; a perfect gift, though far too excessive for a birthday present." He turned an admonishing glance towards Draco that Severus didn't believe was truly genuine.

Draco apparently didn't either, or perhaps he was simply too used to being the focus of such a stare. He grinned widely and dropped a kiss onto Potter's cheek. "Says you, Mister I-Will-Organise-An-Extravagent-Birthday-Because-Of-Muggle-Tradition. You said yourself that eighteenth birthdays were the big ones to non-magic folk."

"Yes, and I very distinctly remember your condescension towards my thinking such."

"Condescension or not, love, I can hardly provide something of lesser grandeur than thou. Speaking of, I hope you've nowhere you wish to be tonight."

"What? Are we going somewhere?"

"We might just be."

"Draco, you really don't need to."

Severus shook his head as the two fell into familiar reprimanding banter, exchanging words like professional ping-pong players for their speed and focus solely upon one another. He caught a glimpse of Narcissa out of the corner of his eye and had to suppress a snort. The witch, for all she preached the benefits of an argument, was looking at the very insincere argument between her son and his lover with adoring fondness. To be expected, of course, Severus had come to realise over the past weeks. She doted on Potter nearly as much as Draco did. Well, maybe not quite as much.

With the faint disagreeability falling from the boy's exchange, it was perhaps expected that they fall into chaste kisses and handholding. Expected, but nonetheless aversive. Severus personally was not particularly fond of public displays of affection, and though Draco and Potter hardly made such 'public', they evidently felt that the presence of mother and godfather to one of them was private enough. It was faintly sickening to be an onlooker to their open adoration for one another – though Narcissa's smile seemed to grow only more indulging – and Severus hastily called a house elf for tea. In moments, a table was set with chairs, iced tea and shortbread.

Lazing around the wide, shaded area with chilled cups, the four chatted idly into the afternoon. Severus couldn't say that he was particularly fond of nor familiar with Potter, but such seemed to matter little. The boy was amicably talkative enough, rather more than he had been in his Hogwarts days, and even had he not been Draco and Narcissa made wonderful company. The sort of easy company that arose from a lifetime of familiarity. Draco had a sharp wit and blessedly never shied from a good debate, while Narcissa was simply intriguing for the perceptiveness and intelligence of her own mind. In short, such company could never be said to be boring.

"Has Burisque corresponded with you upon your timetable as of yet, Draco?" Severus queried after a brief lull in conversation.

Draco shrugged in reply. "Not as of yet, but I'm not particularly worried."

"You begin your studies in a week. Surely –"

"Severus, Burisque is infamous for his detached aloofness from society. _Most_ apprenticeships begin in the second week of August, but I would hardly be surprised if his took longer to initiate. Of the three time's I've met him, I've had to remind him who I was twice."

Narcissa gasped in mock shock. "He forgot who you were? Oh, my dear, but the horror!"

"I know!" Draco replied indignantly, though the smile he bore suggested him less than taken with his mother's act. "Who could forget me?"

"You do leave a rather distinct impression," Potter murmured, sipping his tea.

"I do at that, don't I?" Draco raised his chin with that pompousness he'd been assuming since youth. It looked ridiculous at his age, and Severus was thankful that the boy had grown out of genuinely utilising the façade. "Still, he remembered the third time, and was rather enthusiastic as soon as I walked through the door."

"Enthusiastic?" Potter tilted his head, peering at Draco questioningly. "I was certain you were complaining just the other day about his complete lack of enthusiasm for anything save Ancient Runes."

"Yes, but you see, Harry, I'm a prodigy. Of course he's interested in me."

"Ah, I see. Of course. My mistake." Potter buried his smile in his tea once more. He wasn't the only one. Severus struggled to suppress the twitching of his own lips.

"He may be as dazed as a Lovegood, but even so he's remarkably talented." Draco dusted his fingers together, shedding the clinging crumbs onto his plate. "I have to agree. His book _The Intricacies of Runic Reading_ was simply fascinating. He has an entirely different take upon interpreting ancient scripts and translating material. Apparently at present he's developing a method of translating the multiple extinct languages into symbolic depictions for magical translation."

"I thought you said that was impossible?" Potter said, leaning forward in his seat and propping his chin on one hand to blink at Draco curiously. And Draco beamed, evidently thriving in the chance to share his knowledge. Or perhaps it was simply at being the subject of his lover's undivided attention.

"It is, theoretically. Burisque is somewhat adept at circumventing the 'theoretical' and jumping straight into the 'practical'." Draco tapped Potter's hand pointedly. "Sort of like you, I suppose."

Potter shook his head insistently at that. "No, not like me at all. Everything I do is firmly grounded in the logical and realistic. Or, well," he paused, pondering thoughtfully. "At least as logical as magic is."

Severus shook his head, delicately placing another biscuit onto his plate as the two erupted into another round of good-natured argument. Narcissa may claim they never fought, but they were certainly ready to question one another's opinions readily enough. It was a wonder that they _didn't_ argue with sincerity.

As the afternoon drifted towards evening, talk gradually died into comfortable silence. Somewhere along the way – Severus didn't really know when and was faintly horrified when he realised it had happened – Draco had tugged Potter into his chair, folding into one another so that they were entwined like a pair of climbing vines. Well, he tugged Potter _more_ into his lap than 'shared the chair', really. If they hadn't looked simply so comfortable with one another, more than the comfort Severus found in having _his own chair_ , and if Narcissa had not been positively on the verge of crooning at the sight of them, he would have made his disgust known. As it was, he subsided. Just this once.

It was not long after this that a fifth companion joined their tea party. Potter's little black cat appeared from nowhere as though Apparated, sauntering up the steps of the pergola and leapt with easy grace onto the table. Potter started forward from his seat on Draco's lap, murmuring profuse apologies to Narcissa as he tugged the creature into his own lap.

The cat was Potter's Familiar, unsurprisingly enough. Unsurprising, as Potter seemed to resemble something of a cat himself, and Severus had always found that witches and wizards tended towards resembling their animal companions. Or at least, he appeared somewhat cat-like when Severus had first beheld the boy, distant and selective of his interests and those he socialised with as he had been. Looking at the beast kneading blissfully into the leg of Potter's jeans, green eyes squinting in satisfaction, Severus could still see the resemblance but more for physicality that behaviour.

"Here, Harry," Narcissa, predictably, produced a treat from mid air and held it out to the boy. Narcissa, Severus had noticed, appeared as taken with the familiar as she was with the boy himself, and Severus was always astounded by her readiness to produce morsels to shower lovingly upon the fur ball.

"Thank you, Narcissa," Potter smiled, taking the treat and offering it her. The cat gobbled it down with evident relish. "She says she's very grateful, and – pardon me for her presumptuousness – but she said she'll spend at least ten minutes in your lap this evening after supper."

Narcissa simply laughed lightly under Harry's apologetic cringe. "Why thank you, young lady." She spoke towards the cat as though it were a person and the cat, spoilt beast that it was, licked its chops lazily in return. "I would be most honoured."

"What does she call Mother, anyway?" Draco murmured for Potter's ears only, though Narcissa perked up her head in interest.

"What?" Severus drawled, hiding his confusion under a bored drone. He knew that Potter had a Communication Collar that allowed him to converse with his Familiar on a more intelligible level than most were capable, but little else. Names? The creature designated names?

Potter cringed again slightly, though he retained his smile this time. "Lyssy tends to appoint her own names to those she's familiar with."

Severus raised an eyebrow dubiously. "Is that so? Such as?"

"Well," Potter glanced over his shoulder towards Draco, "she calls Draco my Swan –"

"It's because I'm so beautifully graceful and elegant, and am a master of flight," Draco smirked, dropping his chin onto Potter's shoulder.

"Actually, it's because you're big, have a long neck and hissed at her at every given opportunity for the first year that we were friends," Potter corrected.

Narcissa laughed once more at that and even Severus permitted himself a small smile. "And what honourable name has she afforded me?" She asked.

Potter tilted his head as he peered at the cat, fingers stroking idly at the bejewelled plait of collar around its neck. Severus studied the exchange closely; he'd heard of Communication Collars before – of course he had – but he'd never actually seen them in use before. They were frightfully expensive given that cyanogriffins were a protected species, but he shouldn't have been surprised that Draco would get one for his lover. He was fairly certain the Malfoy heir would have brought him the entirety of France had Potter asked for it.

Not that there was much really to watch in the exchange. Potter simply stared at the cat for a moment, eyes slightly glazed, and the little creature twitched its tail and tilted its head towards him as though answering without words. After a moment, both pairs of green eyes – eerily similar, the both of them – fastened on Narcissa. Potter smiled slightly, nodding as though in satisfaction, before those double eyes turned surprisingly towards Snape. Suddenly made aware of Severus' scrutiny, Potter flushed faintly and slumped back into Draco.

"Well?" Draco, never one much for patience, prompted the silent boy.

Potter fidgeted on his lap, flush fading if only slightly. "Narcissa?" He turned to the woman waiting expectantly. "She calls you the Queen."

Narcissa eyes widened, blinking rapidly in confusion. A moment later a smile curled her lips. "Is that so? And why is that?"

Severus thought it fairly self explanatory – one only had to look at the graceful, regal woman to know – but held his tongue. Well enough, for the answer was unexpected.

"It's because she sees you sort of as a mother figure, I suppose. I'm improvising the name 'queen' as it's the name for a mother cat; that's the image she gave me. I don't know if it was _her_ mother or…"

Narcissa was blinking rapidly once more, but the smile shifted into a more tender expression. Severus wasn't sure he saw it as a compliment himself, but evidently Narcissa felt it to be as much. "Is that... oh. I wonder, why would she call me that?"

Potter stroked fondly on the fuzzy black head. "Because you care for her. And you pet her, and scratch her where she likes, but also scold her out of your aviary." He gave Narcissa an impish smile. "Though mostly I think it's because you feed her."

Narcissa's laugh was a tinkling flutter of amusement touched with genuine delight. "Truly? Then I shall take it as a compliment." She looked ecstatic with the prospect.

"What about Severus, then?" Draco asked, nodding his head towards him. Severus scowled at his godson coldly, and was not encouraged by the flush returning fully to Potter's cheeks.

"I'd rather not say."

"Oh, now you have to tell," Draco grinned manically, a predatory gleam to his eyes. Severus felt his lip curl but didn't object.

"Potter?"

Potter glanced up towards him. He fidgeted once more, resisting for a moment longer before slumping in defeat. "She, um… she calls you Batman."

There was silence for a moment. Then it shattered as Draco broke into peals of laughter.

His threw his head back and cackled uproariously, eyes closing and shoulder shaking in bodily merriment that nearly dislodged Potter from his lap. In moments he was gasping for breath, struggling to wheeze around his laughter. Severus raised an eyebrow slowly, intentionally, in what he knew to be the widely-acknowledged signal of 'Snape-Danger-Zone', but Draco hardly spared him a glance.

Potter, though flushing in mortification, couldn't supress the small smile from breaking out on his own face. He ducked his chin in an attempt to hide from Severus' sweeping gaze, but Severus resignedly accepted his amusement anyway. For even Narcissa was chortling quietly, a hand raised to her cover her mouth in an inadequate attempt to hide her good-humour.

 _Well, it's not all that bad_ , Severus considered. There were worse comparisons to be made than to Muggle superheroes. If anything Severus was more surprised that Draco, and even Narcissa, seemed familiar with the reference. He felt his offence dying slightly in the face of their collective amusement. It wasn't cruel or derogatory, and held just the hint of teasing to its richness.

Still, it was mollifying when Potter cast him an apologetic, almost subservient glance. "I apologise on Lyssy's behalf, Professor. She doesn't quite have those sort of inhibitions."

"Only to be expected," Severus replied, which drew an incredulous stare from Draco. Ignoring the boy, he fixed Potter with a thoughtful stare. "I am curious, though, Potter, as to your cat's namesake."

The boy cocked his head in surprised. "Lyssy?" He glanced down at the creature falling into a drowsy sleep, sprawled presumably across his lap. "It's not really a secret."

"Bollocks," Draco said, drawing an admonishing glance from Narcissa that he pointedly ignored. "I asked you years ago why you called her that and you never told me."

"No you didn't." Potter frowned over his shoulder at his boyfriend. "I would have just told you if you'd asked. It's a bit embarrassing, true, but not so much it's a secret."

"I did. I'm sure I did, because I always wondered."

"No, you didn't."

"I did!"

"Regardless," Narcissa broke in, sighing in exasperation. "I myself am curious. Harry?"

Shifting under the weight of all of their curious stares, Potter dropped his gaze to his hands stroking over the cat's back. He looked uncomfortable, but no longer bore the glowing cheeks of embarrassment he'd worn earlier. "It's a bit juvenile, but… well, actually her name is Lys. Lyssy is just a childish habit I got into, I suppose. Lys in French, it means…"

Severus felt his breath catch in his throat. An unexpected and completely uncharacteristic upwelling of emotion flooded him. _But that means…_

"Lily? You called your cat Lily?" Draco paused, frowning until his brow cleared in comprehension. "Wait, wasn't that your mother's name?"

Potter nodded. "I told you it was childish. When she first found me – I always felt like it was her that found me, not the other way around – I don't know, I always got the impression that she was looking out for me. It was always Lyssy that gave me comfort when I was upset…"

As he trailed off silence fell beneath the shade of the pergola. With an expression of sad tenderness, Draco slipped his arms around Potter's waist and hugged him even closer to himself, dropping his chin to press a kiss onto his shoulder. Potter gave him a gentle pat, a smile of reassurance. Narcissa's face was frozen in a mask that barely concealed her own sadness.

Severus barely saw any of it. He couldn't compute the information, and his mind had numbed to all thought. _Lily. He named the cat, that little furry creature, after Lily because she_ reminded _him…_ For the first time in years – _years_ – Severus felt the pinpricks of tears in his eyes. He felt the urge to clear his throat itch in the back of his throat. _The boy, Lily's boy, he felt the need to…_

It was heartbreaking. And not only for the tide of memories, of Lily's smiles and her ferocious scolding, the high laughter of a child and the joy of companionship, that pooled forth.

He swam back from his melancholic musings slowly to the sound of Draco and Narcissa patching up the sudden sorrowful spell. Draco looked to be nearly set on crushing his lover in an embrace. "No wonder she loves you, really. I mean, you're fantastic with animals. Hagrid still pines for your absence from his classes, I'd bet."

"Hardly, Draco," Harry replied, but gave a gentle smile as recognition of his attempts to lighten the mood.

"It's true! You said Clytine likes you, too."

"Clytine likes the manual labour of over-eager student volunteers."

"I have no doubt you're rather proficient at Magical Creatures studies, Harry," Narcissa said with forced lightness. She smiled as the grateful glance Potter turned upon her too. "Have you considered undertaking the Animagus short-course?"

"What's this?" Severus broke in, struggling to shove his upwelling bout of melancholic nostalgia.

It was Potter, unexpectedly enough, that explained. "Beauxbatons offers a short-course for determining one's capacity for Animagus transformation and subsequent progression towards assumption for those competent."

"Really? They encourage Animagi?" Severus couldn't quite keep the surprise from his voice.

"Beauxbatons encourages just about every form of magic it can get its hands on," Draco replied. He shifted his hold on Potter once more, glancing up at him with chin still on shoulder. "I think you should do it. You know they say that sort of thing helps with studying magical – or even non-magical – creatures."

"Yes, but fundamentally it's impossible. I wouldn't be able to do it." Potter sighed, and Severus was given the impression that they'd trekked the conversation before.

"People do it all the time, Harry. It's not even hugely uncommon."

"That's not the point. How would someone _realistically_ shapeshift into an animal? What about the conservation of mass, or alteration of one's internal anatomy, or –"

"Magic takes care of all of that."

The pair descended into another one of their arguments of sorts, Narcissa inputting her own opinion every now and again while Severus silently watched. Potter was a curiosity, and Severus felt himself even more curious about the boy after learning of his Familiar's namesake. That flicker of pain flashed through him again with the thought, accompanied by that which he hadn't foreseen. He felt… something towards the boy. Sympathy?

How unexpected.

When the shadows had lengthened towards night, their collective party finally rose to their feet to make their way back into the Manor inside. Lost in thought, Severus found himself unexpectedly falling into step beside Draco. Narcissa and Potter spoke quietly ahead, the Familiar perched on Potter's shoulder. Severus was able to ignore the pointed stare the younger man was giving him for the most of the short trip, but Draco evidently wasn't.

"You know, Severus," he said quietly, obviously for his ears alone. "You don't have to keep calling him Potter."

"What?" Severus turned towards him sceptically.

"Harry. He's Harry, not some meddlesome student. And besides," he paused and a slow smile spread across his face, "if you like him you shouldn't be so derogatory."

"Like him?"

Draco didn't reply, only widening his smile. He lengthened his stride and stepped up to Potter's side, looping his arm through his lover's as he inserted himself easily into the conversation Potter and Narcissa exchanged. Severus was left to ponder the boy's words as his affront gradually quelled.

Later that evening he caught Potter in the hallway as he was making his way up to the bedroom the two boys shared. Severus didn't know what made him do it; a spur of the moment decision, perhaps.

"Harry."

The boy – the _young man_ \- paused, one foot on the bottom step and turned to Severus. Wide eyes blinked at him from surprise behind his spectacles. "Sir?"

For a moment, Severus didn't know what to say. He struggled for a moment, ensuring his face was a blank, cool mask, before speaking the first words that came into his head. "I believe you would do well as a Magical Creatures carer. Draco is correct in saying that an Animagus form assists in such work."

Harry blinked again blankly, clearly surprised at Severus' approach. "I do believe him. I just have difficulties with the theoretical side of a transformation like that."

"Then manipulate the transformation to your ability," Severus suggested. "The true form of an Animagus is what suits the witch or wizard personally. If you are sceptical of the particular form, your inner animal will likely accommodate this. It has no impact on your innate ability."

Severus didn't know where the words were coming from. They were almost amicable. Almost, _almost_ kindly. Harry seemed about as shocked as him. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again before replying. "I… I'm not sure if it would work but…" He paused, and a shy smile graced his lips. "Thank you, sir. For your suggestion. I appreciate it."

There was no time for a reply. Draco stepped into the hallway a moment later, falling to Harry's side. "You ready? We'll have to hurry to make the booking." He glanced towards Harry and received a nod in reply.

As they headed up the stairs to ready themselves for whatever Draco had planned, Draco cast a small smile over his shoulder that Severus returned with a scowl. Yet even so, as they disappeared into the upper stories of the manor, Severus felt an unexpected contentment settle within him.

How odd. Maybe Lily's son truly was something different after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please, please, PLEASE leave a comment! I'd really love to hear from you. Thank you xx


	11. A Study In Runes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I feel like I have to apologise for this chapter. It is very Draco-centric, a bit wordy and a little verbose, and might even seem sort of like a filler, but I felt like it was necessary. Hope you enjoy!

Draco hated apprenticing under Burisque. Hated it almost as much as he loved it.

Well, hated was perhaps a strong word. But very, very frustrated on frequent occasions was an understatement.

At nearly two months into his post-Hogwarts studies, Draco had come to realise something that he should have perhaps been aware of about Calvinn Burisque from the first newspaper article he read about him. Though, in hindsight, he _had_ been aware of it and had simply overlooked the terms "eccentric" and "exceedingly idiosyncratic" as exaggerations.

They weren't.

Burisque was an odd little fellow to put it bluntly. Shorter than Draco by at least a head, he was a remarkably skinny man that gave the impression of a scarecrow save for his distinct absence of hair. Not even a whisker on his face, and his eyebrows were so sparse as to be easily overlooked. Yet for all his oddity of appearance, it held nothing upon the character of the aberrant himself.

The man was a passionate scholar of Ancient Runes, in just about every form of the academic and archaeological pursuit. He translated academic works as a hobby, wrote reports on archaeological artefacts in his spare time, and formed a career out of refining spells new and old by assessing their runic interpretations and ironing out the creases that the ancient masters would have been horrified to have seen in modern magics. And that wasn't the least of it.

Draco spent much of his time with the man, and very little of that time was engaged in conversation. In fact, the man seemed to visibly start whenever Draco spoke to him, driving him from the depths of his musing. Draco had learned not to do that, as though Burisque rarely became angry, he seemed to lose any motivation for his current task and generally fell into translating odd bits and pieces into Ancient Runes instead. It was not a very productive approach to funded research.

Alongside such a quirk, Draco had come to realise a number of others the man possessed. Such as that when he was working on a particularly difficult artefact he would always wrap it in protective charms and sleep with it like a stuffed animal. He said it was to "let his magic do its work", whatever that meant. Or his frequent shifts into nocturnal habits as he said the absence of the sun helped his brain to function better, or his frequent ambidextrous behaviour despite lacking in proficient ambidexterity himself. Or that he had a fascination with the Beauxbatons students learning experience in Ancient Runes and had to often be bodily dragged from the classroom for the disruptive questions he asked not the _professeurs_ but the students. Had Draco not been so adamant about staying near Beauxbatons – both for the academic resources it provided and for _other_ obvious reasons – he would have suggested they move from the little rented flat in _Rivierie Ville_ simply to put some distance between them.

One of the most frustrating things, however, was that Burisque seemed to forget with alarming frequency that he had an apprentice at all. So frequently at the beginning, in fact, that more often than not when Draco addressed him he would have to start off with the phrase "I'm Draco, your apprentice" to clear the blankness from the man's eyes. Which wouldn't have been such a problem, except that Draco was basically teaching himself most of the time. Far from the direction of the Hogwarts teachers, Burisque – when he remembered he had an apprentice – seemed content to let them pursue their own interests in whatever area suited him. It was almost pointless having the apprenticeship at all, and in those first few weeks Draco had thoroughly despaired about making the wrong decision.

That was until he came to the understanding, however, that Burisque honestly deemed him capable of learning himself. Not so much because he simply forgot he was an apprentice – which was a primary contributor – but because he felt Draco competent enough to participate in Burisque's own endeavours as not a burdensome student but as a colleague in scholarly pursuit.

It started off with small things, little hints that dawned the realisation. Such as that Burisque _never_ simply gave him a report to test his knowledge. Every paper, every translation that Draco made had a purpose to it, a purpose outside of the function of simply learning – Draco had been startled into mute surprise when he realised that his first paper was actually commissioned. The next was when he grew aware of Burisque's assumption of his accompaniment on short trips to archaeological sites, or to meet fellow masters in their field of study. It occurred to him just after the man had returned from his first that Draco had witnessed from his role as an apprentice. Walking through the doors of the Beauxbatons _Bibliothèque_ , he'd huffed and puffed as he lowered himself down into a chair at Draco's side and stared at him silently until Draco gave him his full attention.

"Master Burisque?"

"Where were you today, Derrick?"

"It's Draco," He corrected. But then he frowned, confused. "Did you require my assistance with something, Master?"

Burisque blinked his wide blue eyes, jutting his jaw forward in that way he had when he was confused himself. "I told you yesterday, didn't I, Draven? Kellerwey Kellington wanted to discuss the descriptive reports she'd sketched out of the artefacts from Turkey. I could have used your sharp eyes."

Draco blinked slowly. "It's Draco," he muttered without even realising he said anything. "Master, I didn't think it my place as an apprentice to directly partake in the support of such a study. Turkey reputedly covets any archaeological reports before approval has been administered. I figured as I am only an apprentice I shouldn't –"

"Nonsense, Drakon," Burisque flapped a hand idly. Draco barely registered the repeated error of his name. "You've a brain for this sort of thing. The term 'apprentice' is used only by those who think themselves superior than their newest work partners."

"Superior? Well, you do have more experience –"

"Which is all well and good, of course, but I'm sure that there's a might you've still got sitting in that big brain of yours that I've long since forgotten from my school days. You know I can't read most of anything in the third-class _Merlecue_ alphabet anymore without a dictionary beside me? _Iustitius_ dialect I could recite in my sleep, but _Merlecue_? Can't wrap my head around it anymore."

Draco had been rendered speechless as Burisque gave him a crooked smile and muttered something about seeing how the latest up-and-coming students were doing before departing. From that point, the man's odd little quirks became marginally easier to live with. More tolerable, if not overlooked entirely.

It was a breakthrough of sorts, and not only for their relationship. Draco hadn't even realised it, but in the absence of his constant striving for perfection, to appear infallible to his Master, he came to understand just how unrealistic such an expectation was. Yes, he had less experience than the master – of course he did, he was younger and had been specialising for all of a few weeks. But more than that, he realised that it didn't really matter. He would patch up the holes in his knowledge when he encountered them, and Burisque was there to supply answers to those he couldn't untangle himself. Or at least help him work through them if the Master himself couldn't even manage it off the bat. Which, to Draco's surprise, happened more frequently than expected. It was oddly comforting to know that, even as prestigious and successfully as Burisque was, there was an impossibly deep well of skills and knowledge that he hadn't even scratched the surface of.

Draco loved Ancient Runes only more for that fact.

By two months, Draco and his Master – or colleague, as Burisque seemed adamant in labelling him when he remembered him at all – had fallen into a steady routine. Burisque had an endless supply of work that was sent to him from every possible source that thought they could capture a portion of his time. Draco helped him work through the never-ending pile in the comfort of their two-LDK flat, or in the walls of Beauxbatons academy. He found that quite unlike his anticipated slide into boredom – predicted in the event of slogging through years of additional necessary tutelage – he rather liked revisiting the process of each new material presented to him.

When not filing through reports or penning translations, sketching in charcoal or studying the faint impressions of runes on ancient specimens, Draco accompanied Burisque on his frequent trips to see like-minded scholars. It had been awe-inspiring at first to meet so many names Draco had read the works of and admired from afar. It was only his thoroughly ingrained Malfoy etiquette that kept him from being overwhelmed like an overexcited fan. And though such admiration would never truly die, Draco came to live with the confrontation of so many of his academic heroes and even partake in intellectual debates without immediately ceding their greater expertise and hence opinion. It helped when he became aware of a number of rather odd habits that each of them possessed; it made them seem somehow more human. He dreaded, at times, just what sort of foibles he would develop. The seemed to be a part and parcel of working of studying Ancient Runes.

It was an ideal set up for him, though, Draco couldn't deny. He spent the week in the Pyrenees – he was eternally grateful to Burisques adoration of Beauxbatons that meant he was only too happy to accommodate Draco's suggestion – and the weekends at Malfoy Manor with his mother. But most ideal of all was that, even though it was a weekday, he could meet up with Harry. Every. Single. Day.

The sixth year Beauxbatons students engaged in independent studies about as much as they did classroom work. As such, though Harry was often engrossed in his own books and reports, it was not uncommon for him to spend the day with Draco in the _Bibliothèque_ , or even the little apartment in the nearby town. And, far be it from the distraction that Narcissa had idly speculated it may become, Draco found he thrived in his current circumstances. What could be better than working at what he loved alongside the one he loved? He wasn't sure where he wanted to specialise _specifically_ yet – Burisque was the leading mind in perfecting rune to spell translations for practical application, and though Draco found such work fascinating he wasn't sure he wanted to follow in his master's footsteps – but he had time. At present, he was content.

The sounding of the Beauxbatons bell could be heard in every hidden corner of the Palace, resounding over the valley below the academy. Draco paused, his quill poised above his parchment, and counted the chimes. He had to, to discern what time it was; he had lost himself so deeply in his readings and notations that the he couldn't be sure of the hour exactly.

 _Three… four… five._ Five o'clock. Time to go.

Neatly stacking his parchments, covered in cursive dictation and nearly thirty pages thick, he rolled the bundle into a scroll and secreted it in his bottomless bag. Considering the books strewn across his desk, he momentarily contemplated bringing several with him to study over the weekend. Though he was more fluent in the _Merlecue_ alphabet than Burisque, and Dawnton's take on the interpreting the South-East Asian Mutiny Inscriptions was fascinating, he eventually decided to forego the thought and sent the books whizzing into their shelves with a flick of his wand after their fellows. With a nod to the young librarian's assistant, he strode from the room.

Beauxbatons and its sprawling grounds was illuminated in a deep orange glow that caused Draco to squint as he stepped from the elevating system – remarkable contraptions that they wind pipes. He paused for a moment to blink the tears from his eyes before heading down towards the pegasus arena near the loading bay. It was where Harry had said he'd be, and if Draco was guilty at losing track of time when in his writings then Harry was worse when he was with the pegasus. Or any sort of magical creature, really.

Heading down the hill, the arena gradually climbed into view between the trees as a wide open stretch of vibrant white. As large as a quidditch pitch, the structure seemed impossibly out of place secreted deep within the Pyrenees. It looked so out of place and so distinctive; surely a Muggle would notice, even with Repelling Charms in place. Roughly oblong in shape, the length of the arena was lined in a thick coating of fine, white sand that maintained its smoothness by rapidly remedying any footprints that marred it. Regularly placed posts lined the eight-foot iron fencing, a magical shade cover rising upon extensions and doming between opposite sides at an incredible height that would have likely enable an actual quidditch game to take place beneath. The shade filtered the warm autumnal light to a bearable brightness, its shimmering surface casting the orange glow to a muted red.

All in all, it was perhaps the largest single structure in Beauxbatons beside the palace itself. For certain, the residents were proud of their pegasus.

Swinging himself with relative ease atop the fence, Draco swung his legs upon the inside of the arena and settled onto his perch. He draped his robe around himself comfortably and shifted his gaze to watch the display performing before him. There was only one pegasus in the entire space, and only one handler at that which would have been startling had Draco not seen it so many times before. Still, the filly, larger than any horse he'd ever seen despite its youth, dwarfed Harry as though he were a child beside a draught horse. Had he not looked so comfortable in the vicinity of the creature, and the creature so comfortable with him in turn, then yes, Draco would have been worried.

As it was, Harry was likely the safest person at the Academy with the young pegasus. For whatever reason, the beast seemed to have taken a shine to him. Well, more than a shine really. Harry had expressed his worries over the attachment she seemed to have developed to him, saying that she was getting more and more unruly with other handlers despite behaving nearly perfectly for him.

Draco couldn't see any particular problem with that, especially as he admired the picture they presented. He couldn't help the smile that spread across his face, nor did he want to. Harry was lunging the filly with practiced ease, turning in a slow circle as she looped around him. They made a sight, the white gold of the pegasus' gleaming coat drinking in the red rays of the dying sunlight, the oddly graceful stance of her handler as he urged the filly onwards with gentle clicks of his tongue and murmured encouragement. Not even the dirt-stained trousers and jacket, the sand-encrusted boots and gloves sticking out from his back pocket, could detract from the captivating show.

What was surprising, however, was that the filly was in the air. Of course, it was natural to assume that pegasus flew – they'd hardly be as remarkable if they didn't. However, in this case, the age of the pegasus was what made it astounding. It was common knowledge that young pegasus rarely – if ever – flew upon request under one year of age. Oh, they flew, but were naturally stubborn creatures and hence stubbornly refused to do so for their handlers. Abraxans, the Beauxbatons breed, were especially so.

Apparently, Harry was an exception. There truly was no fighting the fates that led him towards the care of magical creatures. It seemed to come naturally to him and he had as much of a love for all creatures great and small – and magical – as Draco did for Ancient Runes. It was no wonder his _professeur_ was attempting to get train the eyes of any specialists that visited the academy to their sixth years. Between Harry, Tali and… what was his name? Luka or something… the French institution seemed to be churning out prodigies in the field this year.

A warm nudge at his thigh drew Draco's eyes from his entertainment. Lyssy perched atop the wide fence beside him, pinning him accusingly with both her stare and her paw as though he were entirely at fault for not noticing her arrival and immediately offering to scratch her head.

"I'm sorry, my lady, I was distracted. My deepest apologies." Scooping the little cat into his hands he nestled her in his lap – thank goodness he was wearing dark robes – and set to stroking her idly. She shivered into a comfortable curl and within moments a purr was thrumming through Draco's thighs. He gave a small smiled before turning back to Harry.

Draco and Lyssy had reached something of a truce in recent months. He wasn't sure exactly when it had started but suspected his leniency had begun to fade into mild affection when Harry told him she had named him. It was silly, really, that he should feel as though the 'naming' ceremony of a dumb beast meant anything, yet it did. And besides, Lyssy wasn't a dumb beast. That, at least, Draco had come to realise. Even without the knowledge that his partner and the furry Familiar shared conversations of a sort, there was far too much intelligence in the little cat's eyes to label her with stupidity.

In the past, Draco had never been fond of animals, magical or otherwise. What with the hippogriff incident in third year and the hydra in sixth year, he felt justified in his stance. It was hence rather astounding to realise that he quite liked Lyssy. Not only for the support she always offered to Harry either – which had been the initial cause of his favour – but because he felt actual affection for the little cat. What was more astounding was that he found himself drawn just slightly to the various creatures Harry persistently introduced him to in his studies. It had taken a while for him to develop the suspicion that perhaps Harry was habituating him on purpose, but whenever he asked him about it Harry would only offer him a confused expression that even Draco, master of deception, had difficult discerning for falseness.

Maybe it was just Harry's influence, but he was actually finding the animated discussions he had with his partner on the ecology and physiology of his subjects interesting. Surely it must just be the chance to seen Harry so enthusiastic; he seemed to shed that constant shyness he possessed in lieu of such discussions. That in itself seemed a good enough reason to favour the creatures themselves, even without his hesitant, wary interest in them.

The pegasus, for example, were certainly not the dumb beasts he would have once suspected them of being. There was nothing mindless about the filly's pricked ears, her nicker in reply to Harry's direction or the pause in her flight to sail to the ground and trot to his side for a well-earned pat. Draco watched the pair as the filly bowed her head into Harry's shoulder, nearly pushing him into a stumble that was so obviously unintended that Draco could only laugh.

A call from the other end of the arena drew the attention of both himself and the pair in the centre of the open plain. _Professeur_ Clytine of Magical Creatures was waving a beckoning hand towards Harry from the distant half-opened gate. A tall, broad-shouldered woman stood at his side, leaning casually against the fence and watching with interest. Harry, pausing only to loop lunge rope and grasp a hold of the filly's halter, led the way towards them both at a slow jog. The pegasus followed eagerly, lifting her hoofs in the dainty, exaggerated gait of the Abraxans. Clytine fell rapidly into an animated explanation and wild gesticulation as soon as Harry was in hearing distance, though Draco himself couldn't hear a word of it.

"I wonder who she is?" He muttered idly to Lyssy who, in response to his words, raised her head and glanced across the arena. The unknown woman had similarly slipped into the discussion and seemed quite enthusiastic to be doing so. She kept gesturing towards the filly who, from the backwards pinning of her ears, wasn't all too pleased at being the subject of the woman's attention.

Draco didn't have long to wait to find out. Not five minutes later Harry was striding back across the arena towards him, the filly trailing behind him and shooting aggressive glances over her shoulder. He smiled up at Draco as he approached. "Sorry, I didn't realise you were here."

"It _is_ five o'clock. That was the agreed time, wasn't it?"

"Is it really"' Harry looked genuinely surprised by the fact. He stopped at Draco's side, head barely reaching the bottom of his shoes for the height of Draco's seat atop the fence, and scratched idly at the filly's pointed snout. "I must have missed the bell."

Draco shrugged, disregarding the oversight. "What was all that about, then?" He nodded towards the professor departing with the unfamiliar woman, still in deep discussion. Draco liked Clytine from what he'd seen of him, but he certainly did like the sound of his own voice.

Harry followed the direction of his gesture. "What was what? The woman?"

"Your pegasus didn't seem to like her very much."

"Her name's Edelweiss, Draco, not 'pegasus'. I'm sure I've told you at least a dozen times." Harry gave him a pointed stare. "And Eddie doesn't seem to like anyone really, do you, dear?" He crooned into the beast's snout and received a gentle nicker in reply. Draco could swear she was agreeing with him wholeheartedly.

"Honestly, what is it with you French and naming your pets after flowers? Is it a requisite or something?" Draco pointed meaningfully at Lyssy in his lap, but Harry only smiled at him in response, shrugging. "And don't ignore my question."

"She was another scout for graduates. From Andorra la Vella."

"Another one?"

Harry shrugged again. "Are you surprised? Apparently Clytine is often like this with his sixth years, trying to sell us off as it were."

Draco resumed his stroking of the cat in his lap. "Not that I'm agreeing with his mercenary approach exactly, but what do you think? Any good?"

Blowing at the loose strands of his fringe, Harry frowned. "I'm not sure. I mean… She works with flying species, so that's where her interest in the pegasus comes from, but mostly her holdings are aviaries. I don't know if that's…" He sighed in a brief arousal of frustration. "I don't know if flying creatures are even my main interest. I honestly have no idea what I want to do when I finish school."

"I'd recommend Care of Magical Creatures, but that's just my opinion."

"You know what I mean," Harry replied, rolling his eyes.

Draco paused in his immediate inclination to continue taunting his partner. He'd been in the same position last year and, though he was still unsure of what he desired to pursue _exactly_ , it didn't faze him. He was happy with what he was doing, and any further considerations would sort themselves out with time. He was sure of it. "Maybe you should just pick something and go with it?"

Harry raised an eyebrow at him. "Just like that?"

It was Draco's turn to shrug. "It's not the end of the world if you end up doing something you dislike. Just move onto something else if it doesn't take your fancy." He paused his stroking, frowning as a thought occurred to him. "Except if it takes you off halfway around the world. Please don't do that again."

Pushing away from Edelweiss, Harry took to stroking Draco's leg instead. Draco was sure he didn't imagine the scowl the filly sent his way, disconcerting as it was that they were at head height with one another from his perch. As Harry smiled up at him, however, any distraction he may have had with the disgruntled pegasus immediately dissipated. "Of course. Whatever you say."

"That's not what you said a year ago."

"I really am sorry, you know. But you're never going to let me forget that, are you?"

Draco shook his head solemnly. "Never."

Sighing, Harry batted at his leg in a rather more forceful stroke. "Enough of that. Come on, then, we should get going or we'll be late for dinner."

"You, love, are the one who would make us late."

Harry met his eyes shrewdly. "I may have miscalculated the time, but I'm not the one who spends hours in front of a mirror to attend a simple dinner amongst friends."

"There's a certain standard –"

"Among friends?"

"Even then."

Harry chuckled. "Well, then, I suppose we'd better get you home so you can gussy up." And he was off again, trotting Edelweiss towards the gate once more and leaving Draco in his wake.

Harry was right, of course. Even with brushing down the pegasus, stabling her, and cleaning himself up, Harry took less time than Draco did to ready himself when they tripped down to _Rivierie Ville_ and stopped by Burisque and Draco's apartment. Draco deliberately ignored the pointed Tempus Charm Harry imprinted briefly into the wall before leaving, but even he was aware of the time it had taken him.

Not to say that it was entirely his fault, of course. Even Harry couldn't blame him for one of the main sources of his lateness, especially given that he was a primary participant himself. Not that Draco complained about that himself. It was practically impossible for either of them to dress themselves around one another without descending into some much appreciated skinship.

Since Draco's birthday months before, it was as though an invisible but impregnable wall had dropped between them. At least Draco hadn't seen it there, certainly. Since had been a journey of discovery of sorts. A wonderfully addictive journey that Draco was keen to continue and explore at every opportunity. And Harry was only more than happy to oblige.

Any lingering guilt Draco may have felt, the fear of sparking unwanted memories into resurfacing, gradually faded. There had only been once instance where Harry had been inflicted by such an assault of memories – at least as far as Draco knew. But even then Harry had been adamant about forcing the offending retrospection aside. Draco had suggested they maybe take a break, that they allow Harry to come to terms with the memories as they arose. Which had led to Harry taking a far more demanding and assertive role in their lovemaking that Draco could hardly complain about. It was rare for Harry to express any sort of the like outside of the bedroom and it was a wonderful discovery that such an aspect of his character arose between the sheets.

Their relationship had only grown closer since their consummation. And Draco couldn't be happier of the fact. He would readily claim to just about anyone that he was more than a little wrapped around Harry's finger, though his partner rarely, if ever, abused the fact. Much to Blaise's disgust, naturally. It was, in fact, such willingness to do just about anything Harry suggested that led to their weekly dining event.

In recent weeks, every Friday Draco and Harry had taken to joining Tali for dinner in Student Town. It became such a regular not only as it gave the two students in question a chance to eat out of the academy for a change but because Tali's childhood friend, Viviette, was holidaying briefly in France and was spending every weekend in the hidden town to visit Tali. Eager to spur her two closest friends into a friendship of their own, Tali had proposed their weekly appointments. And, naturally, Draco accompanied them. At times Neville and Ginny – or Neville and Aime, depending upon Ginny's inclination to travel to the academy's sister town – would tag along.

Not today, however. Draco and Harry headed towards the pre-booked restaurant – a little Italian joint that had only recently opened – without accompaniment just as the distant academy belltower alerted them that the time had reached a half past six. The interior, a deceptively plain room of wooden floors, matching tables and green walls strewn with murals of what appeared to be a vineyard, was already half full and warm with the coupled buzz of conversation and heat radiating from the kitchen with every striding admittance of a laden waiter. Scanning the room quickly, it wasn't difficult to spot Tali and Viviette; Harry's friend in particular would have stood out anywhere with her fiery hair, despite her short stature.

Crossing the room, Draco drew out both spare seats – ever the gentlemen – and nodded in greeting to the two girls as he and Harry sat themselves down. "Good evening, ladies. How are you both?"

"Perfectly amicable today, _Monsieur_ Malfoy, I assure you." Tali grinned up at him with the now-familiar taunting grin. She seemed to love going head to head with him, and quite frankly Draco quite enjoyed it himself. She spoke awfully quickly, that young woman did, and seemed to have an enormous amount to say, unexpected given her quiet tone of voice. All of it was quite intellectual, though, so Draco found he could even forgive her when she overrode him at times.

"Wonderful. I'm always happy for a change." He glanced to Viviette as Tali smirked at him. "And you, Viviette. Lovely to see you again."

" _Merci_ , Draco. Ze same to you," the young woman replied, affording him a smile.

Viviette was an interesting character, as much as Tali was yet in an entirely different way. She seemed to perfectly balance Tali's chatter with a thoughtfully attentive silence that reminded Draco of how Harry was at times. A tall, slender girl with a long, thin face, he was always curious to behold what strange and wonderful changes she'd made to her hair each time he saw her. A Muggleborn, she went by the non-magical means of dying her hair in a multitude of often changing colours. It could have been his personal opinion but he thought the colour sat better when it was applied by physical means, the dyeing method that witches and wizards shunned for the more temporary glamors and transfigurations. They suited her well, the bright colours, surprising given her otherwise unobtrusive impression. Or perhaps that was the very reason why she had elected to do so.

Tali had already descended back into her nattering, speaking to everyone and no one in general. Draco thought she was talking about her studies – Herbology, to be precise – but then the next moment she appeared to be speculating about the cause behind the derailing in Muggle Paris three days ago. He couldn't quite understand the segue, but Viviette seemed unfazed by such a transition and simply nodded in time with her friend's words. Draco rolled his eyes at Harry, who smiled back at him in response before handing him a menu.

Despite the difficulty with keeping up with Tali's chatter at times, Draco found he quite enjoyed their dinners. Even if he did at times bemoan them for having to share his time with Harry with the two young women. They were both remarkably intelligent and hence made good conversationalists. Even better yet, Viviette had taken Ancient Runes briefly before she left school and appeared to have retained a remarkable amount of knowledge on the subject. Draco found he was more than happy to discuss ancient alphabets and translation methods with her, which she absorbed with that same attentiveness she did Tali's animated words.

By the time dinner arrived, Tali had captured Harry's attention – something to do with school again – leaving Draco to converse at a more sedate pace with Vivette. Which, honestly, he quite enjoyed. She asked some stimulating questions and had frequently left him in deep consideration with some of her statements.

"No, I don't think so," he pondered, spinning his fork into his fettuccine and pausing to ladle it into his mouth. "I don't think that's possible. We lock down any lingering effects the physical inscription of the Runes have on historical objects before relocating them."

Viviette tilted her head, frowning at her own bowl of pasta as she thought. "But zat's what I find confusing. I zought zat most artefacts were magically installed in place and zat was how zey got their power. Most of ze Runes are inscribed after zeir placement, aren't zey? Surely where it is found would have some significant effect on ze magical signature of ze object.'

Draco nodded, ceding the validity of her statement. "That may be, but that's why we have specialists trained in the assessment of a site and removal of the objects."

"And what does zat entail, exactly."

"More or less, it's sort of scooping up the surrounding residue of magic and linking it to the artefact so it's brought along when the relocation takes place." Pausing, he forked an olive from his plate and placed it onto Harry's. He couldn't abide the things, and Harry – for whatever ungodly reason – actually seemed to like them. All for the best, of course; it was rude to send food back to the kitchens. Harry didn't even seem to notice. "It's quite fascinating, actually. I've only seen it once twice, but it takes an incredibly fine touch to ensure that all of the magic is detached fully from the surroundings. Leave even a little bit behind and it will completely drain the magical potency left behind in the runes."

Smiling, Viviette glanced at him thoughtfully. "You really like zis sort of thing, don't you?"

Draco shrugged. Of course. It's why I'm apprenticed in it.

Could you see yourself becoming a Removalist?

He shook his head at that. "No, I'm more of a translator. Picking apart fiddly magical webbing is more Harry's area." He took a sip of his wine. "But what about you? Any thoughts about what you're going to do when your contract concludes?"

Viviette sighed heavily, prodding at her meal once more. "I'm not sure, yet. I love where I work, yes, but it is not really feasible."

"Financially?"

"Yeah, somezing like that." But whether it was her words, her tone, or the half glance towards Tali laughing animatedly at her side, Draco suspected that wasn't it entirely. "I mean, ze study of magical creatures does not pay very well unless you become an expert in ze field, really, and even zen it is competitive."

Draco nodded in commiseration. "I couldn't agree more. Any intellectual career path is competitive, but I hear the Iberian Peninsula is something of a favourite amongst those in your field."

Laughing quietly, Viviette nodded vigorously. "Yes, you could say zat. I cannot turn sideways without tripping over someone with –"

"Hey, hey, Draco, 'Arry's being particularly close mouthed. Can you fill me in?"

Tali leant halfway across the table, elbows nearly crunching into the breadbasket as she burst into the conversation with her demand. Draco raised an eyebrow, pursing his lips, and spared a glance for Viviette. The tall young woman didn't even seem to notice him; she was smiling fondly at her friend as though she actually appreciated being interrupted.

Glancing towards Harry who only shook his head in exasperation, Draco placed his fork onto his plate. "About what, exactly?"

"I heard zrough ze grapevine zat apparently Clytine was zinking of giving Edelweiss into 'is care after 'e finished up with school." She blinked at him questioningly. "Thoughts?"

Turning once more towards Harry, Draco raised an eyebrow. "I haven't heard about that. What's this?"

Harry sighed with that same weary exasperation. Draco got the impression Tali had been drilling him for some time already. "It's not going to happen. It's just a rumour. Clytine mentioned – jokingly, mind, just off-hand – that it would be easier if I just took Eddie with me seeing as she seems to dislike just about everyone else."

"I zink dislike is a mild way of putting it," Tali said. Draco could only agree with the sentiment.

"Are you certain it is a joke?" Viviette asked. She looked genuinely interested. Enough to have her attention drawn from Tali, anyway. "I can't remember Clytine being one to joke about 'is creatures."

"Exactly what I said," Tali exclaimed, smiling triumphantly at Harry. "I zink zere's more to zis zan you make out to be. How does it feel, nearly-to-be independent owner of a pegasus?"

Harry flicked his eyes between the two girls, bemused. "I think you're getting a bit ahead of yourselves –"

"Hypothetically, pretend we are not."

"It's not going to happen. I'm hardly in the position to take a pegasus and I very much doubt Clytine would just _give_ her to me. He loves his animals."

"I don't zink zere would be much regret on 'is part, actually." Tali finally sat back into her seat, picking up her glass and raising it to her lips. "'E seems razer put out zat Edelweiss doesn't like 'im, actually. 'E'll probably be begging you to take her before you leave."

"Regardless, it's not going to happen. I can't keep a giant pegasus in my house."

"Why not?" Draco asked. He was genuinely curious at the prospect. He thought Harry liked the creature, and so long as he could care for it didn't see much of a problem with taking it in.

Harry turned incredulous eyes towards him. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm entirely serious. You like her, why not just take her in? It's not like the manor doesn't have plenty of space out the back for you to have your own menagerie, even. One pegasus is hardly going to take up much room."

Draco thought he had been subtle, bringing up the topic of their future residency and slipping it neatly into the conversation. It had been a point of… well, not discord but certainly uncertainty between them in recent weeks. Harry felt guilty over 'mooching' off his mother's good graces, he said, by living under her roof while Draco maintained that Narcissa was desperate for them to live with her. More than that, it would basically be their own house as she only frequented the walls every other night all for the time she spent at the university. Evidently, from Harry's raised eyebrows, he hadn't missed the 'subtle' suggestion. He didn't comment on it, however.

Tali, on the other hand, was not so restrained. "Oh, are you moving into your family manor when 'Arry graduates? Ze both of you?"

"We haven't decided yet," Harry murmured, dropping his eyes to his hands, fingers entwining in his lap.

"But why not? I mean, zere's nothing wrong with sharing a 'ouse. Really, I'd live with my parents for the rest of my life if I didn't zink I'd be working overseas. It is basically a whole collection of 'ouses all jammed together anyway. I wouldn't even 'ave to see zem if I didn't want to. I'm assuming that Malfoy Manor is ze same? Speaking of," and she pinned Draco with an affronted frown so suddenly that Draco almost started, "you still 'ave to invite me to you manor. I could take it as an insult zat you haven't already."

Draco was saved from answering by Viviette. "It is certainly an option, 'Arry." Her voice was far less presuming than Tali's and Draco suspected it was that more than anything that urged Harry to raise his gaze from his hands. "Accommodation is a necessary annoyance zat you don't realise how complicated it really is until you 'ave to try and find it for yourself." She smiled kindly – everything Viviette did was kind. "Besides, it would certainly solve any potential issues you'd 'ave with adopting Edelweiss. Unless, do you not want to adopt her?"

Harry hastened to assure Viviette that he adored the filly, then abruptly changed the topic to questioning her about what she was doing for the following week. Draco settled back into his chair to listen to the girl describe what initially appeared to be a weekly event of travelling across greater metropolitan Paris but she soon explained was merely a series of visits to her many widely spaced relatives.

They eventually left the little restaurant when the waiter informed them they would be closing within ten minutes. Following the unavoidable disagreement over who paid the bill – Draco and Tali were always the ones to do the fighting for precedence of sorts, though more often than not it was actually Harry or Viviette who handled the bill in the end – they parted ways.

"Same time next week?" Tali called down the road, hands cupped around her mouth as she walked backwards. "You alright with going to _Nibbles_ again?"

"Again? That will be the third time, Tali," Draco replied with a long-suffering sigh. Not that he really minded, but it was protocol to put up an argument with the girl.

Tali replied with a laugh, accepting Draco's words as agreement, before turning and disappearing into the darkness alongside Viviette. The pair would stay at the little inn that Viviette rented a room from every weekend and Draco doubted he'd see either of them for the next two days.

"I'll walk you back to the castle," Draco said, slipping his hand into Harry's as they wandered slowly down the road. It wasn't snowing or anything – it rarely, if ever, snowed at _Rivierie Ville_ – but the night air was cool nonetheless.

Harry shook his head, rolling his eyes at the familiarity of Draco's words. "Don't be ridiculous. You'd have to walk twice as far for a pointless trip."

"Not pointless if I'm making sure you get back to school alright." Frustratingly enough, Burisque wasn't overly fond of anyone other than Draco and himself sleeping in their shared apartment. Draco thought it likely had something to do with his inability to recognise people even after meeting them several times, which likely led him to believe he was waking up to a random assortment of strangers.

"I'm more than capable of taking care of myself. And besides, it would be counter-productive if you joined me. You'd have to walk back by yourself if you came with me."

"Hardly a problem," Draco waved off. Slinging an arm around Harry's shoulders, he dropped a kiss to the side of his head. "I'm hardly as tempting as an innocent creature such as yourself."

Harry snorted at that, but there was amusement in the sound. "If we're speaking of innocence – or ignorant more correctly – I think I'm the lesser of the two of us that has to worry."

Their banter continued as they walked, all the way to Draco's front door. He was a little surprised when Harry turned him to face it; without him knowing, somehow his partner had manoeuvred him to his street of residency even as Draco objected to the eventuality of such. Had he not distinctly felt his feet walking every step of the way Draco would have suspected some Apparation involved.

"Draco, shut up and go to bed," Harry said in a deceptively soothing tone before he could speak. He rose onto his toes slightly to give Draco a kiss, smothering any further objections Draco could make. "With a population of less than five hundred, the academy included, for nearly one hundred kilometres in any direction, I think I'm fairly safe to walk myself back."

Draco grumbled, still maintaining his objection even as he knew it to be a lost cause. Harry ignored him, smiling and shaking his head as he opened the door. "Next time you can come with me, alright? But for now, I'll see you tomo –"

"Drake! Drake, is that you?!"

Harry's words were cut off by a wavering cry from Burisque indoors. Both Harry and Draco started before hastening inside. They stumbled to a halt in the small, fire-lit living room to see Burisque madly scooping books and parchments into a trunk. He had a robe slung over his shoulder, only half shrugged on, and appeared to be wearing only one boot. Not injured, though, as Draco had worried from his cry.

"Master Burisque, are you alright?" Harry asked, his voice was uncertain. He appeared similarly confused as his gaze followed the man's hobbling passage across the room.

Burisque barely spared Harry a passing glance. "Ah, lovely to meet you, young man. Are you another friend of Drake's? I apologise, but I really haven't the time to talk." He disappeared into his bedroom and returned moments later with another three robes cradled in his arms. "Drake, quickly now, get packing!"

Draco blinked in confusion. Not over the incorrect use of his name – no, despite the time they spent together, 'Drake' was apparently as close as Burisque could get to his actual name. Rather, the enthusiasm and crazed excitement of the man was surprising. "Packing, Master?"

"Yes, packing! We're going for a week, or there abouts. Quickly now, we haven't much time or it will all be dissipated by the time we get there!"

Moving mechanically, Draco quickly retrieved a trunk from his room and began to pack. It wasn't the first time Burisque had been so caught up with his excitement over an unexpected meeting or an historical find that he'd been unable to fully explain the cause of his excitement. Harry helped him pack with similar efficiency, exchanging muttered questions with Draco the entire time.

When they dragged the trunk back into the cluttered living room it was to find Burisque struggling to force his own trunk closed over stacks of books and unfolded robes. It was a testament to his hysteria that he didn't even think to use a Shrinking Charm Draco quickly moved to assist him. "Master, what is going on? Where are we going?"

Burisque grunted as he struggled to snap the trunk shut. "To Turkey, of course! To the Appalyn site. They've finally managed to open the doors!"

With those brief words, Draco felt his breath catch. The Doors of Appalyn were something of a mystery to Wizarding archaeologists and Rune Masters alike. Stapled shut by almost unintelligible runic binding, specialists had been attempting to pry open the unwieldy stones for years.

Yet it was not the bindings that were of interest. There had only been one previous finding of a site even vaguely similar to that at Appalyn – found in Greece nearly a century before – and inside had been a wondrous treasure trove of artefacts, books and scrolls that had left Ancient Rune translators nearly salivating to unearth the secrets they held. The only trouble was that such an excavation was sloppily conducted and many of the magical artefacts, their magic contained for thousands of years by the runes across the stone doors hiding the room, had drastically lost their potency, even going so far as to blur the stone-carved runes themselves with the out-rush of magic. Draco felt an abrupt invigoration, a strength put to forcing Burisque's trunk shut. Of course they had to leave, and quickly! The bloody archaeologist fools were more likely to sit about drawing sketches of the artefacts than glean what magical knowledge they could from the findings before it disappeared!

"Alright, alright, grab your trunk, Drake, quickly. We're leaving!" Burisque fumbled in his pocket and extricated a long and rather ugly gold link chain. "I've got myself an emergency portkey to Ankara for just such an eventuality. Hurry, hurry!"

And Draco did. He only skidded to a stop as he hefted his trunk and, swinging his gaze towards over his shoulder, met the amused twinkle in Harry's eyes. "Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry, but this is –"

"Draco, there is absolutely no need to apologise." Stepping forwards over the trunk dropped momentarily at Draco's feet, Harry pressed a soft kiss on his lips. "Go and have fun. Make sure you send me a postcard."

"It's only for a week, I swear." Draco felt horribly guilty for leaving so abruptly. Not that it hadn't happened before, but he had agreed to spend the weekend with Harry. They were going to go and visit Anouk – _Anouk_ , not Sirius, of course.

"No excuse," Harry replied, his smile widening. "I still want a postcard." At an impatient call from behind him, Harry nudged him on the shoulder. "Hurry up, I think Burisque is likely to pop a vein if you take much longer."

Pausing, conflicted, Draco bit his lower lip for a brief moment before leaning in to press a quick kiss on Harry's lips in return. "I love you. I'll be back soon." Harry only nodded as he nudged him towards his master once more.

Burisque spared Harry a second more of his attention as he looped the gold chain around both his and Draco's wrists. In spite of his guilt, Draco felt an upwelling of excitement settle in his gut. "Young man, would you be so kind as to seal up this apartment for me? Just a standard Locking Charm should do, and maybe a Burglary Charm if you have the chance." And if that didn't say something of the man's eagerness to be gone – he was pedantic enough as it was about the research he kept strewn in a disorderly scatter across his room – Draco didn't know what did.

"Of course," Harry replied. When the portkey activated and Draco felt a jerk behind his navel, the last thing he saw was Harry smiling widely, fondly, and waving his hand before he was thrown into the vortex of international travel.


	12. A Past Long Avoided

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi everyone. Before I start this chapter, I feel like I should just give a WARNING. Not for anything particularly explicit but because I have the suspicion that I might provoke annoyance, frustration, possibly a little bit of disappointment over how everything plays out. I would just like to say that I have written as such as I believe the following response is how the characters would most realistically act. This does not mean that I entirely approve of it, nor that I think it is exactly the right response. Personally, I don't think there is any specifically right way to act in such a situation - it depends entirely upon the individual and what they choose, or how they can respond. I am in no way downplaying the severity of childhood abuse or PTSD, so please don't think as much.
> 
> Sorry, though, if this annoys anyone. Hope you enjoy the chapter regardless :)

"Harry, I notice you never mention your parents. Why is that?"

Harry glanced upwards from his lap, peering across the dark room towards the woman in green. Socorro's face was a mask of mild curiosity; not intrusive, not judgmental. Simply… curious.

"What's there to say? I don't even remember them."

"But you said you've spoken to some of their friends from the past. And your godfather, Sirius; he always seems eager to share stories of them. Do you like hearing stories about your parents?"

Dropping his eyes back into his lap, Harry tugged awkwardly on his fingers. "It's not that I don't like hearing stories of them, it's just…"

"Do you find it painful to hear about them?"

Harry considered, then slowly shook his head. "No so much hearing about them. I want to know about my parents, I really do."

Socorro waited silently, allowing him to finish. When Harry didn't continue, she prompted him, "But?"

"But…" Harry sighed. He rubbed a hand over his collarbones. Not scratching; he wasn't supposed to do that anymore. It was a personal challenge that he felt he was going rather well at accomplishing, except for in moments such as these. "I don't know. Whenever anyone does talk about them, it just brings up memories."

"Memories? What kind of memories? You said you didn't remember your parents." It wasn't an accusation – Socorro was never accusing – but there was genuine, urging curiosity behind her words.

"I don't. I mean, it's not memories of them, just…" He took a deep breath that faintly wavered. "The image that comes to mind when anyone talks of my parents is my family. The one that I do remember. And when I think of my family I think of…"

"Ah." Socorro nodded her head slowly, her quill scribbling in nearly inaudible scratches on the arm of her chair. "I see. Would you be able to tell me what sort of memories are triggered by discussing your parents?"

A year ago, Harry knew he wouldn't have been able to. He would have blanked out, or shied away from the suggestion. He would have confronted the intrusive question with indifference or blatantly ignored it.

Not now. He was, truly, quite comfortable with Socorro. Comfortable enough to discuss things with her that he had previously considered untouchable. He did not feel closer to her than to his friends, exactly. There was not a deeper bond between them than he held with someone like Draco, or Tali, or Sirius. But he could talk to her, talk like he could with no one else. It had taken a while, and months of meeting twice a week that had only recently eased to weekly sessions, but yes, he was comfortable with her.

Besides, even if only gradually, Socorro knew things about him, knew the facts as he saw them and no one else did. There was very little of the dirty sides of him that she wasn't aware of, if any. It was that which made it easier for him to confess the truth of his feelings.

"When Sirius talks about James, or when my old teacher Professor Slughorn or Professor McGonagall would talk about Lily, I don't think of my mum and dad. My mind just immediately goes to my mum's side of the family, the people that I do know. To Stephen and the Dursleys."

Socorro nodded, that slow, kind nod that she was so partial to using. "Any memories in particular?"

Harry twisted his lips, thinking and tamping down on the discomfort that welled within him at her prodding. "I think of my aunt, of the few times she told me anything about Lily. She would usually get angry at me after discussing it, even if I wasn't the one who brought it up. Or I would remember when my uncle Vernon used to lock me in the cupboard and tell me how no one wanted me, not my parents, and that they were probably happy that they escaped looking after me.'

Again, Socorro gave that slow nod of understanding. She never attempted to intrude upon his explanations with sympathy or reassurances that what Harry's relatives had told him had been cruel, had been false and _wrong_. They'd worked through that long ago, had objectively discussed the very wrongness of what he'd been told, what he'd experienced. Socorro appreciated that Harry was intelligent enough – or at least applicably logical enough – to recall their discussion when revisiting his past. It had been only very few times where she had been forced to remind him herself.

"Dudley used to be the same, though I think he just copied what my uncle was saying. Almost word for word, actually, now that I think about it, though he'd usually punctuate himself by throwing things at me from across the room, or chasing after me with his friends." Harry shrugged with forced nonchalance, his eyes still on his lap. Yes, he knew, logically, that the words of his relatives weren't true, but the memory of the pain they'd elicited still stung. "That's mostly what comes to mind. I don't like it, I don't like remembering that, even if I know it's not true and my aunt and uncle were mostly just resentful of my parents."

"It's perfectly understandable to want to avoid such discussions," Socorro said, her tone lacking in overt sympathy as usual. But there was still a distinct note of compassion, of kindness, in her words. "Harry, I have to ask, though. When you say you remember your relatives? You don't seem to associate your parents with Stephen."

Harry opened his mouth to reply but faltered. He frowned. That was true. He hadn't even noticed. "I guess… I don't know. I feel like a lot of the difficulties I have with the – with my past are associated with Stephen. And I feel like… I don't know, maybe I'm getting better at learning to live with them." Socorro didn't say anything when he paused, only tilting her head when he glanced towards her. "No, I don't think I do. Associate him with my parents, I mean."

"Why do you think that is?"

Attempting to speak once more, Harry failed again. Why was that? "I… I don't know."

"Take a guess. Just tell me what you think."

Socorro wasn't condescending with her suggestion. It was a simple question, no strings attached, and none of the careful slowness and superiority of a teacher that already knew the answer to the question perfectly well. She was, quite honestly, asking his opinion. It was her way, her approach, and Harry found it agreed with him.

"I suppose… Maybe I've come to terms with some of the things that happened with Stephen? Maybe?" He frowned again. It was true, for he had. Not all of them, certainly, he was sure of that. There were still moments when he would receive a gut-clenching flashback, unexpectedly and often even when conducting a task that he'd done dozens of times before. Even with Draco still, sometimes, the memories would resurface. Only briefly, and usually it was easy enough to thrust them aside and get lost in the moment with his partner.

There had been that one time in particular where his memories had nearly frozen him – it had been the first time Draco had taken the lead in their intimacy. Harry knew that Draco had noticed, had seen his arousal of uncertainty and known that Draco would pull away in a tide of his own irrational guilt and fear. So Harry had made sure that he couldn't, and the memory had died from the moment he demanded it have no place in his relationship with Draco. It had worked. For the most part, he was fairly certain that any succeeding, brief revisits of memory were kept well hidden from Draco. And they seemed to be recurring less frequently, too. So yes, maybe he was getting better with dealing with that part of his past.

"But you don't think so with the Dursleys?"

Socorro's voice brought him from his musings. Slowly, he shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe. I guess I just don't know… how…"

Crossing her legs in a fluid motion of flicking robes, Socorro leant back into her seat. "I could offer my suggestion, Harry, but you already know what I'm going to say."

"I don't want to press charges," Harry murmured hastily, sinking back into the cushions of his own chair.

Socorro nodded, ceding. "I know. And that is your prerogative. As a legal adult, it is your decision whether you pursue the judicial process to hold your relatives accountable for their actions. Personally, from a professional perspective, I would of course prefer to see such accountability held. But," she raised her voice slightly, one of the few times she had ever overridden him, as Harry made to protest, "it is not my place. And due to doctor-patient confidentiality, it would be immoral and unethical for me to do so." She gave a small, slightly rueful smile. "Not to mention it would likely cost me my job.

"Yet even though I do have my preferences, I can understand where you come from with your resistance in pursuing legal proceeds. Looking into past cases of domestic abuse is messy, and not only because of the temporal aspects of it. There is always difficulty juggling between the Wizarding and the Muggle judicial systems. And as part of both worlds, I'm afraid that it would be very difficult for you to report to one without the other becoming aware and naturally embroiled." Her smile became bemused, as though she considered a pair of rather foolish children rather than two prestigious judicial bodies. "No one ever said the judiciary were the most practical of systems."

Harry smiled himself. It was relieving to know that Socorro wouldn't go behind his back with the good intentions of 'seeking justice where justice was due'. He didn't want to dredge up the past more than it had been. More than that, it honestly felt like he didn't need to. Yes, he understood what they – what all of them – had done was wrong. That it was unfair, cruel, even. "Disgusting and despicable" as Draco called it, with a curl of his lip as though he would readily spit upon any of Harry's relatives should they present themselves before him. He knew this, and yet he didn't want to push it further. It was _his_ past, what had happened to _him_. He knew the arguments, that people should pay for their crimes, that if they weren't held accountable then there was always the possibility that they would conduct just such acts of crime upon other victims.

Perhaps he was being optimistic. Perhaps it was naïve of him, but Harry couldn't let himself think so. He didn't _want_ to think that the Dursleys would be so unkind, so _cruel_ , to anyone else. As far as he knew, none of them had ever lifted a hand to anyone but himself. As for Stephen… Harry wondered – though with less frequency nowadays than he used to – whether the man was still even quite _there_. Harry didn't know what had happened to Stephen Defaux, his guardian of five years, but there seemed to be little of him left. The patient in the rehabilitation centre had been a shell, empty and lifeless. There had been not a flicker of recognition behind those dull eyes.

Some people would likely call him selfish, to not consider the 'potential' victims that he could be protecting by alerting the authorities. And maybe he was. But then, Draco frequently encouraged him to make his own choices, to even be a little more selfish. So, just this once, maybe he would be.

Socorro was speaking again, and Harry was shaken from his thoughts once more. It happened quite often in their sessions, falling into his mind. Socorro didn't seem to mind. The knowing smile she adopted when she knew he had fallen into another such trance-like state sat upon her lips. "Do you know what I think, Harry?"

Harry blinked, raising an eyebrow, then slowly shook his head.

"I think that perhaps it might be an idea to see your aunt and uncle."

Harry felt his breath die in his chest. "W-what?"

Socorro raised a calming hand. "Not now. I am not saying that you should charge straight into a confrontation when you haven't prepared yourself." She folded her hands in her lap once more. "But I think I would be correct in assuming that confronting the Dursleys would be a big step in your recovery."

Still struggling to breath, Harry had to clench his fingers together in his lap to keep from scratching himself. _Distress._ _Anxiety_. Yes, he was familiar with the signs by now. "Why?"

With that ever-soothing voice that even now worked its magic on Harry's jumping nerves, Socorro continued. "Because I believe that the Dursleys are still a very real and very unshakeable block for you. I think you have in the past handled your memories of them, however distant, by simply pushing them to the back of your mind. Would you agree?"

Slowly, hesitantly, Harry nodded.

Socorro's smile seemed almost grateful for the agreement. "You will recall, I am sure, of your difficulty with firearms when first I met you, yes?"

Frowning slightly, Harry nodded once more. It wasn't something he liked to recall, but he could credit that Socorro's recommended method of treatment had been effective. For months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry had flinched at any sound resembling that of a gunshot, had been afflicted by a powerful bout of nausea whenever he even saw the image of a gun. Thankfully, such images were scarce in the Wizarding world, for even as the weapon that destroyed Voldemort, wizards and witches maintained their uneasiness around firearms on general principle.

Harry was an avoider. That's what he did, was what he'd always done to protect himself from being overwhelmed by painful memories, from memories that hurt and scared him. Socorro had put a stop to that. The immersion therapy, a rapid-fire sequence of painfully uncomfortable bouts to habituate himself to the reality of guns once more, had worked like a charm. It was as though, hit in the face with no way of avoiding it, Harry had simply clawed to build his own immunity to the damage such exposure could cause, an immunity that was experienced by just about every other average citizen in the world.

It had worked. Surprisingly well, too. A visit with Socorro to a reputed arms shop – God knew she had connections and was even on speaking terms with the manager – had shown that he was even able to hold one in his hands without shrinking from it in fear.

That in mind, the way Socorro had seemed to simply _know_ the best approach to dealing with his trauma left Harry open-minded to further suggestions from the woman. Wary as he was, he opened himself to the possibilities she would suggest, lips clamped and awaiting her continuation.

Contemplating him and apparently concluding him open to suggestion, Socorro spoke. "I reiterate that I do not mean that it would be best so expose yourself to them _now._ Merely that I think it would be a good point for you to work towards, you and I. I think this can be the next direction we head in. Because I think without truly confronting what happened with your relatives – _all_ of your relatives, not just Stephen – you will be unable to move forwards and unable to view the past with anything but fear."

Swallowing the dryness in his mouth – why was he so nervous? He didn't think the Dursleys still held such power over him – Harry struggled to speak. "So y…you think that seeing them would help.'

Socorro nodded. 'I think that, eventually, seeing the Dursleys will help. Seeing them, and understanding that they no longer hold a part in your life, that they can no longer hurt you. I truly believe it would help you."

"I don't think they can hurt me." Harry's voice was hushed, but he whole-heartedly believed as such. How could they? They lived in another country, for Christ's sake!

"Consciously, yes, I think you know this. But on a subconscious level?" Socorro tilted her head. "What do you think?"

Harry wasn't a psychologist. He knew this, so he could hardly lay claim to superior knowledge. Still, it was hard to reconcile that the Dursleys still held sway over him after all these years. "I… maybe, I suppose."

"Then that's that." Socorro's smile widened. "Don't look so down, Harry. It is entirely up to you whether you pursue this path, and even if you choose to do so then I would not recommend such quite so abruptly. We'll work up to it."

"Oh…kay."

"And you don't have to do this by yourself. In fact, I think it would be better if someone went with you. Do you think Draco would mind?"

Harry let out a small laugh that just bordered on the hysterical. "I think if I went to see the Dursleys without Draco I'd be hearing about it for the rest of my life. Though he's likely to scare the living daylights out of them."

Socorro chuckled herself. "Well, then, I think that it might in fact be a rather good idea to bring him along."

* * *

 

The Christmas holidays.

Two weeks off from his apprenticeship. Two weeks to do absolutely nothing except enjoy himself. Draco never thought he'd be glad to see the back of his Ancient Runes translations, but it was certainly nice to gain a little reprieve, even if it was only temporary. A release, and a much needed one at that. He didn't know what it was, but for whatever reason, when the celebratory spirit hung in the air, Draco felt a distinct lack of maturity sink onto his shoulders. Not that he minded, of course – rather, he revelled in the freedom of some heartfelt juvenile behaviour.

Except today, the child within him was silent. Subdued, even. He didn't have to tell it to pipe down; it make that executive decision all by itself.

Because today was the day he would visit the Dursleys.

Harry had spoken to him nearly a month ago about the possibility of going to see them. From the quiet, calculated way his partner had sat him down, had very seriously requested his assistance, Draco got the impression that it was something Harry had been considering for some time now.

The prospect raised conflicting emotions within him. On the one hand, Draco was relieved, even happy, that Harry had asked him to accompany him. He knew Harry was generally reserved on the topic of his relatives – hell, he didn't even breathe a word of them to Draco except by accident and such accidents were few and far between – so Draco wouldn't have been surprised if Harry's sudden inclination to go and meet those bastards by himself suddenly arisen in conversation up one day, only for him to find that it had taken place over a year ago. So yes, he was relieved, happy, that his partner had asked him.

Yet at the same time, a deep-set growling anger rumbled within him. These were the people who had mistreated the love of his life, had beaten into submission with violence and neglect, before palming him off to some paedophile in a foreign country. Draco had long been plotting every kind of revenge against the creatures who could not even be deemed human for their cruelty. He'd plotted, for that was often the only way he could sleep at night with knowing the reality of the situation.

Draco would, if he could, pin the bastards in gaol. No, that didn't seem like punishment enough. He'd pin them in gaol, make them suffer in isolation, then give them the Dementor's Kiss before throwing them back in again. Even that didn't seem like quite enough, but it was his current fantasy, anyway. It was only Harry's adamant refusal to punish them as such that withheld him from pursuing such actions without restraint. And though Draco couldn't understand the reasoning behind exactly _why_ Harry didn't want to hold them accountable, he would abide by it. Temporarily, at least.

It didn't mean he felt any less loathing for the Dursleys. In actuality, it probably made him hate them even more. At times, Draco even loathed them more than he did Stephen Defaux, and Draco was at times a little startled to realise just how deeply he detested that particular son of the devil himself. Was it possible to hate four people each more than the last in a never-ending loop?

It was this loathing that occupied his thoughts as he walked alongside Harry through the quiet, suburban streets of Little Whinging. It was startlingly contrasting, the absolute deadness of the winter surrounds that sharply juxtaposed the barely contained whirlwind writhing in Draco's chest. He was surprised Harry hadn't commented on the sound of the anger bubbling in his chest and roaring from his ears.

But then, Harry was quite justifiably distracted. It was only in those moments when Draco glanced towards his partner – bundled in thick winter jackets and scarf, shoulders hunched from the cold and tension and breathing puffs of fog onto his glasses – that his anger subsided slightly. For he was here for Harry, to support his partner, in one of what was probably the most difficult things he would ever do.

Draco would never understand the feeling of confronting the demons from his past. His demons had been taken by the war and he would never have to confront them again, never even be given the chance. Harry, though… Harry decided to face his past in an attempt to move on from it. If it were possible to love him more than Draco already did, that display of strength would have done it.

Their boots crunched in time on the ice-crusted pavement, the only sounds in the empty street. As such, the clip of their footsteps echoed ominously loudly. Not a single figure could be seen, though as Draco scanned his surrounds, over the sickeningly identical, stoutly plain houses, he briefly glimpsed pale faces in windows before curtains dropped hastily to hide the dim interior.

 _Creepy. They certainly know how to make people feel unwelcome_. For though Draco had always had an overdeveloped sense of entitlement, he couldn't deny that he felt uneasy in Little Whinging. Even his constant anger was not enough to dispel the discomfort. He would be more than happy to leave the little town.

"Down here," Harry murmured at his side, lifting their clasped hands to gesture to the left of a crossroads. Glancing at the street sign, Draco read the words 'Privet Drive' in immaculate print. The sign looked almost too knew for its placement, too well cared-for. It was unnatural, for a Muggle sign to be so well-preserved from the elements.

He allowed himself to be tugged by Harry's hand down the street. It wasn't a particularly long street, but the monotony of those disgustingly similar houses made it appear longer. With growing agitation, even further discontent than he already felt, he walked in Harry's footsteps – for Harry walked ahead of him now, arm stretched behind him to maintain their handhold – and almost relief when they stopped. A letterbox stood before them, wedged in a picket fence and exactly the same to the rest lining the pathway save for the number '4' in place of the '2' and '6' of its neighbours.

"This is it?"

Harry nodded slowly in reply but didn't glance towards him. Following his line of sight, Draco observed the little house before him. It was decidedly unremarkable. A two-storey bright building was a dull visage of slanted brown roof and box-like windows, each covered by thick, pale curtains from the inside. A sturdy yet unremarkable car squatted in the driveway, covered with a sheet of pale snow unmelted even at midday. The front lawn, as plain as the house itself, was covered in a similar blanket of snow.

Draco didn't know how long they stood there in silence. Obviously Harry saw something in the little house, the house from his past, that was definitely more interesting than what Draco perceived. He had begun to count the minutes when Harry finally spoke.

"My aunt's garden…"

Draco glanced towards him, raising an eyebrow as Harry's words faltered. "What about it?"

Harry shook his head slightly, a very small motion. "No, it's… it's just not there anymore."

Glancing back towards the blanketed lawn, Draco frowned. True, there was not much garden of which to speak. There might have been grass buried beneath all that snow, but not a rose bush or shrubbery in sight.

Draco didn't have much time to ponder the meaning of it, however, for evidently Harry had shaken himself out of his stupor with his own words. A slight tug on his hand and he was following Harry up the icy footpath towards the front door.

The sound of the doorbell rung with a hollow chime. Even through the thickness of the front door Draco thought it sounded slightly off-key, as though the mechanics moaned in wear and tear. It was likely made louder by the distinct lack of any other noise coming from the house. Nothing. Silence.

Draco glanced sideways at Harry as his partner tapped the doorbell once more. His face have blank, but the still blankness of controlled emotions rather than emotionlessness. Draco didn't need to be holding his hand to know that tension thrummed through his entire body.

A third chime and there was still no answer. Draco frowned, his agitation tinging with the constant presence of anger once more. Even without house elves to answer the door, surely such was considered rude, wasn't it? "Maybe they're not home?"

"Maybe," Harry agreed quietly. "Maybe they don't even live here anymore."

Draco hadn't considered that. He didn't get much time to think further on the subject either, for on the fourth chime the sound of softly thudding footsteps down a hall interrupted him. The lock clicked, unlatching, jiggled on the other side of the door swung inwards.

Standing before them was one of the largest men Draco had ever seen. Not taller than him, but simply… big. It wasn't even so much that he carried an enormous amount of fat upon his frame; there was as much muscle and simple _big_ ness as anything else. Draco doubted he would have passed through the doorways straight on without getting his shoulders wedged.

It took a moment of staring to discern that he was a young man. Another to hazard a guess that he was likely not much older than Draco and Harry. He had a mop of sandy blonde hair and ruddy cheeks tinged faintly purple. A wide mouth that was downturned in a natural scowl and watery blue eyes that looked slightly bloodshot over bags of weariness. The man did not look particularly happy to see them, but that could have simply been driven by lack of sleep as actual disgruntlement.

Leaning onto the doorframe, both arms propped either side of and above his head, the man switched his eyes between the both of them. He squinted, as though attempting to discern any trace of familiarity. Neither Draco nor Harry spoke. A brief glance to his side showed Harry in a state of immobility, blinking slowly with… curiosity? Draco was relieved to see there was no fear in the tightness of his partner's shoulders. Or, if there was, it was barely perceivable. In spite of everything Harry was somehow and quite suddenly… calm.

The man in the doorway was the one who broke the silence. His voice was deep and gravely, as though he had a cold. "Do I know you?"

Harry's hand twitched slightly in Draco's, and for a moment he wasn't entirely sure why. When he glanced down towards him, however, there was a warning in Harry's stare that alerted him to his own rekindled anger. Apparently Harry had noticed it welling within him even before he had himself.

Harry stared at him pointedly, unblinkingly for a moment longer, until Draco grudgingly dipped his chin. He turned back to the man. "Um… Dudley?"

The man in the doorway – Dudley – blinked in surprise. At least Draco assumed it was surprise. He wasn't entirely sure the man was awake enough to be surprised. "How do you -?"

"You mean you don't recognise him?" Draco couldn't help himself. His voice was cold and biting, he knew, but Harry could hardly blame him for that. He could have made it so much colder.

Dudley blinked up at him, puzzled, and there was a moment where Draco beheld a rising wariness in the man's eyes. Then he turned back to Harry and squinted again. Only for a moment, though, before his eyes widened, becoming tiny blue marbles in his chubby face. "Bloody hell! Potter? Harry Potter?"

Harry stared at him silently for a moment before slowly nodding his head. "Dudley. It's been a while."

Dudley huffed in a laugh of disbelief, without a trace of amusement, and slumped further into the doorframe. "Yeah, I'll say." He dropped his eyes to the floor for a moment, scrubbing one meaty hand over the back of his head before glancing up once more. Incredulity was thick in his gaze. "Christ, you look different."

"Older, probably, after six years," Harry rationalised. His voice was devoid of emotion. "You do too."

Dudley muttered something beneath his breath, glancing up hesitantly at Harry once more before his eyes drifted towards Draco. He seemed to size him up, and Draco was quite pleased to find that he appeared quite intimidated by what he saw. "Who's he?"

A squeeze of Harry's hand silenced Draco before he could even open his mouth. "This is Draco Malfoy. He's my partner."

"Partner?" Dudley's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline. "What, like your boyfriend?" He snorted, dropping his arms from the doorframe and leaning heavily back into the door instead. "You're a poof?"

Draco might have hissed. Or he might have said something, he wasn't sure. His vision blanked briefly, so fierce and sudden was the rush of his anger, and when it returned seconds later he took it as a point of pride in his own restraint that Dudley was still standing. Or maybe it was simply that Harry's hand had become more like a death grip, a physical restraint, than a clasp that sought support. Still, standing though Dudley may be, his heavy face had slipped into one of stark terror.

Letting his face fall into a sneer, lip curling, Draco glared down his nose at the increasingly cowering man. "I'm sorry. Were you being derogatory towards my partner?" It wasn't really a question, for who would reply with anything to such a baited query except to shake one's head? Which Dudley did. Vigorously.

"Draco." At Harry's murmur, Draco glanced towards him. There was no reprimand in his face, just a faint request, and as quickly as it had arisen Draco's anger fell under wraps once more.

 _This is for Harry. You're here to support Harry, not to pick a fight._ Draco was _supposed_ to let Harry talk, to ask his questions, to rationalise himself with reality and come to terms with what he already knew: that the past was well and truly firmly set where it belonged. In the past.

Taking a deep breath, Draco released his fury through his nostrils. "Sorry," he muttered. And though he looked at Dudley, his words were entirely for Harry. The brief tightening of thin fingers in his own indicated that Harry knew as much.

Dudley seemed to have steadied himself at only a slightly slower pace than Draco did himself. Straightening from his pathetic cower, the man cleared his throat. At least he wasn't slumping lazily on the doorframe anymore. His eyes turned guardedly towards Harry. "What do you want?"

Harry was in control, now. Draco had to wonder just how much mental preparation had gone into his decision to make such a trip, how little he had slept the previous night, to have built such a fortified resistance. "I came to see you."

"Why?"

Harry shrugged. "Tying up loose ends, I guess you could say."

Wariness still swum in Dudley's eyes, eyes that flickered constantly towards Draco, but he seemed to have composed himself marginally. "What does that mean, exactly? What do you want?"

Pausing, Harry glanced over his shoulder. To the car, Draco supposed, though he didn't know why. When he turned back to Dudley, it was to glance briefly over his shoulder before meeting his eyes once more. "Are Vernon and Petunia here?"

Dudley's face blanked. From confusion or something else, Draco didn't know. He blinked slowly, a frown settling on his brow. "You mean you don't know?"

"Know what?"

Closing his eyes, Dudley ran a hand over his face, dragging across his eyes and tugging at his jaw. There was a faint sheen of blond stumble there that Draco hadn't initially noticed. It made a coarse grating sound as his nails raked through it. "'Bout Dad. 'Bout what happened to him."

Harry was frowning now in evident confusion. "What happened?"

A surprising emotion settled on the big man's face, one that Draco wasn't particularly pleased to behold. It looked like sadness. Not fear or guilt, but grief. "Dad died of a heart attack. Four years ago now."

Any lingering anger within Draco seemed to have been shunted abruptly to the side. He didn't feel sympathy, not for the man before him, the man who was Dudley _Dursley_ , but for whatever reason the anger just seemed to… fade.

 _His father died… Oh. So that's what it is_.

It was irrational, that Draco should feel even the faintest twinge of sympathy. Just because the man's father died didn't make him any less of a monster himself, didn't erase the cruelty he'd enacted in the past. If anything, Draco should feel happy for the man's pain, satisfied that the brute who'd hurt his Harry was dead.

And he did. He truly was satisfied that they had been made to pay, even in such a roundabout fashion. Such an unrelated way. Karma, as it may be.

_But still… his father died…_

He didn't know why he kept thinking that, but the thought wouldn't leave him alone.

"Oh," Harry sighed, barely a whisper. "I… I'm sorry, Dudley."

Dudley glanced towards him once more. The sadness was still evident, but it was an old grief, with none of the rawness of acute pain. Incredulity swum forth to take its place as his eyebrows rose once more. "You're sorry? Really?'

Nodding slowly, Harry glanced towards Draco. And suddenly, even in such a situation, even given just whom Harry was talking to, Draco knew that he was speaking with nothing but sympathy for the man who had been his terroriser in their childhood. "No one should have to lose a parent in such a way." He offered Draco a small smile. And somehow, in the numbness and recurring _'his father died'_ swirling around and around in Draco's head, he was able to smile in return.

"Oh," Dudley muttered, interrupting Draco's thoughts and drawing both his and Harry's attention once more. "Oh, well that's…" He cleared his throat. "Thanks, I guess."

"No problem." This time Harry turned his smile, small yet still heartfelt, towards his cousin instead. "Would you perhaps mind telling me what happened?"

And so Dudley did. It was an entirely irrational situation – Harry, speaking to one of the perpetrators of his childhood abuse, standing on an icy doorstep and murmuring words of sympathy as though he genuinely felt for the man before him. And, knowing Harry as Draco did, he likely did feel for him. Somehow. Impossibly, stupidly, but somehow.

Dudley spoke of Vernon's failing health, something that had come about shortly after Harry had left. He spoke of the first heart attack and his subsequent hospitalisation, of the night that it finally happened, in his sleep, and Dudley's father never woke up. And though Dudley was sniffling by the end of it, he didn't cry.

"What about Petunia?" Harry murmured, speaking into the ensuing silence. "Is she…?"

"Mum? Nah, she's alright." Somehow, over the course of his telling, Dudley seemed to have become more comfortable. And though Draco still felt the faint tightness in his chest at the topic at hand, he couldn't suppress the resentment, the swelling anger, that arose at his casualness. _The stupid lump should feel scared out of his wits. I should_ make _him scared._ His sneer threatened to resurface, but once more, as though predicting it, as though feeling it arouse, Harry's hand tightened warningly on his own. "She moved down to London a little while ago. Just after I got out of school. She never liked the suburbs so much anyway, and likes them even less now that Dad's not here. Says they're too quiet."

Harry looked slightly surprised at that. "She prefers inner city?"

Dudley frowned, as though Harry had just accused him of something. "Yeah. Got a problem with that?'

But Harry only shook his head thoughtfully. "No, just – she always seemed to take great pride in her garden and her quiet life. I would have thought…"

"Yeah, well, things change." Dudley spared an almost guilty glance towards the distinct lack of garden over Draco's shoulder. Draco didn't bother to withhold his smirk; it was that or openly scowl at him again.

As their conversation died, Dudley's face fell into seriousness. Into thoughtfulness that Draco hadn't expected to see on such an otherwise obviously unintelligent individual. His small blue eyes, staring uncomfortably at the floor, rose slowly towards Harry. Harry remained motionless beneath his cousins gaze, an admirable, considering the splay if emotions – some quiet aversive – that welled within Dudley's eyes.

"You've changed, Potter."

Harry stared at him for a long moment. So long that Dudley began to shift, fidgeting uneasily from foot to foot. Draco knew that look and could attest to the quiet discomfort that Harry could invoke with a simple, extended stare.

Finally, he broke his silence. "Yes. I have." And surprisingly, a full smile unfurled across his lips. It wasn't an exceptionally wide smile, but it was full and genuine nonetheless. A smile that bespoke true happiness, calm and… release.

Draco didn't understand it. He didn't understand how Harry could so easily smile at the man who had tormented him in his childhood, the son of the aunt and uncle who had made his life a living hell. He didn't understand how Harry could feel anything but hatred for his cousin, for any of his relatives. Draco himself was still struggling with the urge to beat Dudley's face into a pulp, a fact that seemed no less satisfying for its Muggle approach. More satisfying, perhaps, for the desire to feel the crunch of a nose under his fist rather than to simply see the effects of a hex cave the bastard's face in.

He didn't understand it, but then he didn't really have to. Harry was content. Somehow, impossibly, irrationally and inexplicably, he was content.

Draco didn't know at what point, from which moment, the change had occurred. When Dudley told him Vernon was dead? When Draco had scared him into something vaguely resembling a human in his fear? Knowing Harry, it was more likely to be from before then, even. Most likely from the moment he saw Dudley, the man who looked so tired, so worn. So pathetic.

They exchanged a few pleasantries, the two cousins, which Dudley seemed to answer in a state of shock. And then that was it. Only a brief nod of farewell, a murmured "goodbye", and once more Harry was tugging Draco down the path from Number 4 Privet Drive. A brief glance over his shoulder showed Dudley watching their departure. Watching silently, immobile, as though the icy chill of the outdoors had frozen him to the ground. And though he didn't glance over his shoulder to check and be sure, Draco was certain that the man watched them until they disappeared from the street.

Draco and Harry walked in silence through the streets of Little Whinging. It was as empty, as bare and silent, as it had been a mere half an hour before. Except that this time, the hand that settled in Draco's wasn't rigid with tension. Harry didn't hunch his shoulders nervously or keep his chin to his chest, eyes glued firmly to the ground. Quite the opposite, in fact; his face was turned skyward, that same smile that had been on his lips since leaving his cousin still settled comfortably.

As they reached the main road coming out of Little Whinging – not quite a block from the park that would serve as their Apparation point – Harry stopped. His face was still turned skyward, and Draco had to glance overhead to determine if there actually was some sort of magical creature hovering above them to draw his attention. He wouldn't put it past Harry not to tell him.

"Is it terrible of me that I'm relieved he's dead?"

Draco didn't even have to consider his reply. "No. It's not at all. Of course it's not."

Harry didn't seem to hear him, and Draco realised that the question was likely more self-directed. Rhetorical. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'm not so sure, but I just feel lighter, knowing that he's not…" He shook his head again slowly, and a sorrowfully guilty expression settled on his face.

Frowning, Draco had to bite back the desire to take Harry by the shoulders and demand he listen to reason. That the death of his uncle, who had made his childhood a living hell, should _not_ make him feel sad. Or guilty. Or repentant in any way, as his expression suggested he was. Taking a deep breath, Draco fought to unlock his clenched teeth. "I think it would be natural to feel relieved, Harry. I know you're still working on it, but the reality of it is that your uncle abused you." He didn't hide the true meaning of his thoughts by using a euphemism. He didn't need to, for Harry didn't even flinch at the stark reality of the words nowadays. "To be honest, I'm impressed that you even made it here without changing your mind. Even speaking to your cousin." Draco paused. "You're alright? With speaking to him? And with your Aunt and everything?"

The faint amusement that had crept onto Harry's face when Draco had declared himself impressed died. "Seeing Dudley…"

"Because I'm more than happy to turn around, walk straight up to his door, and punch his nose out the back of his head."

"Punch him? Really?" That flicker of amusement returned with a quirk of Harry's lips. "I'd have thought you'd take the hexing route."

"I'd considered it, but striking him skin to skin just seems to much more satisfying."

Harry shook his head in familiar exasperation. Though when he continued his tone turned serious once more, that little smile remained. "I don't really know. I don't know if I should have talked to him more. If I should have blamed him for what happened so long ago. Maybe I should have pressed charges, or at least demanded that Dudley give me Aunt Petunia's address so I could go and confront her too, to _say_ something, but…" He trailed off, dropping his gaze to his feet thoughtfully. "I just don't want to. I thought that I was stuck in the past, that I wouldn't be able to move on without them at least, I don't know, apologising or something maybe. But…"

The quiet of Little Whinging seeming overly loud in the aftermath of Harry's words. Draco watched him closely, attempting to discern if he was going to continue, but further words didn't seem forthcoming. Finally, Draco nudged him into explanation. "But?"

"But… he's different. He's moved on. Aunt Petunia has moved on. And _I'm_ different." Harry took a steadying breath, held it, before releasing it in a rush. "I don't need their apologies, because I doubt they'd ever mean it, truly. I still don't even know if they fully realise that what they did was – was wrong. I don't want to be waiting for something that's never going to happen, and let it rule me and any possible chance of moving on."

"You could press charges."

"I could," Harry nodded in acknowledged. It wasn't in agreement with the notion but simply to recognise Draco's suggestion. "But I don't want to. Because I don't need that hanging over me any longer. I don't _need_ it, and I don't _want_ it. Because it's… it's in the past. And it can't hurt me anymore."

Draco stared at Harry. He felt an entirely foreign feeling well within him and it took a moment of consideration to realise it was awe. It seemed incredible, impossible even, that Harry would just be _alright_. He could never consider that if something like that had happened to _him_ that he could just move on. Could just live and progress, could turn aside from something that had so hurt him and look forwards instead. It seemed unfair, unjust, _impossible_ , and yet to Harry…

Harry just didn't need it. He didn't want to seek justice. To Harry, who had been living with those memories, with those experiences his whole life, he wanted nothing more than to let them go.

There was something so courageous about that. Draco didn't think he could put his feelings on the subject into words if he'd tried. So he kept silent, simply watching as with each moment Harry seemed to settle further and further into his own skin. Tension that Draco had never noticed constantly gripped him silently seemed to ease, previously unnoticed but leaving a profound lightness in its absence.

When Harry finally continued it was in a near whisper. "Thank you for coming with me today."

Draco felt a smile pull at his lips. A real smile, and he realised in that moment that somewhere in the last few moments of silent contemplation, of staring at Harry's serene expression – content in a way he'd never seen before – his anger had nearly entirely disappeared. "Of course. I'd never forgive you if you didn't bring me along."

Harry huffed a breath of fog in laughter. "Yeah, I figured as much." He paused and slowly turned his face towards Draco's. His dark eyes, just visible behind the slight clouding of his lenses, were deep in thought. "You know Draco, I've been thinking."

"Yes? About what?"

"About getting my eyes fixed."

Draco blinked, surprised at the sudden change of topic. Until comprehension dawned. "You mean you -?"

"Yeah. I don't think I really want to wear my glasses anymore."

Draco wanted to ask why. He wanted to know the exact reason. More importantly, he wanted to know just _how_ his partner had managed such a giant leap when he knew how much pain had been settled within him. Harry used his glasses as much as a wall to hide behind as for his sight. It seemed impossible that he would be able to even consider discarding them.

But he didn't ask. Because really, it didn't matter. Harry was happy, and nothing in the world could make him happier himself. Draco felt his lips tug, tentatively stretching wider. "You think so?"

Harry nodded, his own smile broadening. "I think it's about time."

They stared at each other for a moment, the weight of their day trip gradually falling from their shoulders. Finally, Draco leaned in and pressed his lips to Harry's forehead. "I think that's a wonderful idea." Linking his hand through Harry's more tightly, he drew him with a gentle pull to begin their departure once more.

They wandered the short distance to the park without another word. When they Apparated, it was without a moment of regret, nor a single pause to glance over their shoulder. It wasn't like either of them were ever coming back again.


	13. Changing Forms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Urgh, I feel like I'm always apologising for this but can't help myself. Sorry for the verbosity at the beginning of this chapter if it doesn't suit you. I can't seem to help myself with that either. Hope you enjoy the chapter anyway! Light-hearted and fluffy - always good, right?

Dotted across the about the glade, trotting amongst trees and stretching unfamiliar limbs into mobility, was the oddest selection of animals Harry had ever seen in one place. He doubted that many had ever been seen in the Pyrenees before, and certainly not in such company.

 _Well, that's wizards and witches for you,_ he thought. _Of course, their Animagus forms would hardly take such realism into account._

Of the class of thirty who had taken the Animagus Assumption short course, six had been successful in transforming. That in itself was quite remarkable, or so Madame Elmoré claimed. According to her, it had been nearly a decade since so many of one cohort had assumed animal forms, in any school across the international board. And she would know. As a ministry official it was her prerogative to know as much. There could have been one more, even, except that only one of the Petre twins had shown a disposition for such abilities and had refused to even attempt to assume it when her sister couldn't. That made seven all up in the entire year who showed such capacity. "Extraordinary", Elmoré had exclaimed more times than Harry could remember.

He perched to the southern corner of the little woodland clearing, right next to the five-by-five foot pond with his legs crossed and smiling at the antics of his fellow students. Such a motley crew. There was a Bogong moth, brightly coloured wings standing out starkly from the dark dullness of the tree trunk upon which he perched before launching into wayward flight once more. That was Odis. Quinn was peering from the gently waving heights of a pine tree, gazing down her curved owl's beak dismissively at her fellows, ear tufts ruffled and pointed like little horns. Beneath her, Lin and Hilary taunted one another in a game of tag, a leggy gazelle and an Australian kangaroo of all things bounding in dizzying circles like children, while Noel paddled idly in the pond at Harry's side, his long-neck and the crown of his tortoise shell the only features breaching the surface. Then there was Tali, but Harry couldn't even see her. She'd disappeared into the treetops from the moment she'd transformed, eager to practice her coordination in her Animagus form's natural element once more.

Quite an assortment, Harry considered. And they all suited their totem animal so accurately that Harry, even knowing he had been previously as unaware of their forms as any, found it hard to consider them as any other species. If only his own presented itself as obviously.

Also according to Elmoré, he _should_ have been able to transform. She claimed his magical strength, his familiarity with and unique disposition towards magic itself, would have paved an easy route to his desired destination. The only additional factor was his ability to 'see' what is Animagus form would be, and then let the magic do its work. And therein lay the problem.

Harry couldn't see it.

There had been a test. It involved both magical and psychological analysis to determine one's proficiency for transformative magic, and Harry had passed them as successfully as the rest of the students. _Professeur_ Clytine, an accompaniment to the classes as he had been for the entire two months of their duration, had quite proudly professed that it "should be a breeze for him, especially considering his magical strength".

It hadn't been.

In fact, other than Ursula Petre, Harry was the only one who hadn't assumed his Animagus form, though Odis and Hilary had only just managed that very day. It should have frustrated him, he knew, just as it certainly frustrated Elmoré. She was nearly tearing her hair out with the knowledge that he hadn't yet confirmed what his form could be.

But Harry wasn't particularly frustrated. Quite honestly, he wasn't even sure if it would happen, even with Clytine's supposed certainty. To him, bodily metamorphosis just wasn't… logical. It was the old block he had with magic, one that arose every now and again and made it next to impossible to complete the task required of him by his teachers. Some of them he overcame – it had been a year since he'd successfully mastered fire conjugation at every attempt, though it still seemed to take more out of him than it did his fellows. Harry suspected it had something to do with how he perceived it; to him, fire didn't simply come from nowhere. He had to invest his own energy into sparking it alight, and that as exhausting. Obviously. Fire needed fuel, so of course it would be.

Logic. It was both his crutch and his block. And even such logic that seemed so right in his own mind Harry knew to be flawed. He tried very hard not to think about that, though. If he thought too hard about the sheer impossibility of magic, it generally resulted in him becoming temporarily handicapped in the practical department. It had happened before and suspected it would likely happened again. So Harry tried not to think about it.

When it came to Animagus Assumption, however… there seemed to be no way to overcome the difficulties he was having. Harry had tried asking Elmoré and Clytine, even his classmates, for advice or answers – what about the law of conservation of mass? How was it possible to rearrange the basic foundations of one's body without utterly destroying it or causing serious pain? How were the discrepancies between humans and the animal species overcome? Most animals weren't all that similar to humans and a lot were vastly complex in entirely different ways. Yet the familiar and tedious "magic compensates for that" was the frequent reply.

Harry could see Elmoré's frustration, Clytine's confusion and, damn her, Tali's amusement at his inability to comprehend the possibility of _transforming_ _into an animal_. As if _he_ were the strange one for being unable to do it. He could see it, and yet Harry could do nothing about it. If he were to consider the species he would transform into, it would most likely be a cat of some sort. There was Lyssy, of course, who was indication of that enough, and his Patronus that was a ghostly copy of his own Familiar. It all pointed in one direction: cat.

Such knowledge didn't help much. Elmoré had been excited when Harry had explained his conclusion, but had quickly slumped from her enthusiasm when he had further explained that he didn't think he could manage it.

"And exactly why not, _Monsieur_ Potter? You have an idea of your form, all it requires is an urging of the magic to impress that form upon your body. You are familiar with the written theory, are you not?"

Harry had nodded. Of course he was. No one was allowed to step within sight of Elmoré without having read the three hundred-page manual _Animagus Assumption: Embracing Your Wild Side_. Suffice it to say, even after reading it he felt no more confident in his capabilities. "I just don't understand how it would work, Madame."

"And just what aspect do you struggle with?"

Harry chewed his lip thoughtfully. Just where did he begin? "I guess… mostly, I can't see how I can shrink myself into something that small."

Elmoré blinked in thinly veiled confusion. "I'm afraid I do not understand you, _Monsieur_ Potter."

Pausing to struggle for words, Harry drew a breath. "What if my Animagus form is smaller than I am as a human? How do I… become something so small?"

"Well, it's similar to any other transfiguration on an external basis. Transfiguring a mug into a thimble, for instance, or a fork into a teaspoon. They are naturally going to be different sizes, and magic accounts for that. So where is your problem?"

Ducking his head sheepishly, Harry had mumbled his reply. "That's the thing, Madame. I have a bit of difficulty with transfiguration."

"Such as?"

"Non-living to living, for instance. Or between subjects of different sizes." He glanced up at her through his fringe. Her confusion had slipped into troubled thoughtfulness. "I've always had a bit of trouble with that. When I'm shrinking something, I generally just shed the excess mass as minuscule atoms to enable it assuming the smaller shape. Which makes it a little hard to reverse the transfiguration too, actually." He shifted awkwardly. "I've gotten a bit better at avoiding that, but my transfigured objects tend to be a lot denser than they should be."

Elmoré's eyebrows had risen incredulously but before she could reply Clytine had sidled up alongside her from where he had been congratulating Quinn – their first transformer – on her success. "Harry was raised amongst Muggles until he was sixteen, Madame Elmoré." Clytine, ever the compassionate teacher, turned a fond smile to Harry. "I believe the correct description is 'influenced by Muggle magic', is it not, Harry?"

Harry smiled back at his teacher. He really was fond of the man. "Muggle science more accurately, sir."

Comprehension dawned on Elmoré's face as if that explained everything. "Ah, I see." Yet her thoughtful frown didn't waver. If anything it deepened. "I've never heard of such a situation. It happens, of course, but even Muggleborns and late bloomers tend to take to magic and magical theory fairly quickly."

"Yes, well, Harry is rather learned in Muggle magic – Muggle _science_ , it would seem," Clytine rationalised, his smile widening. He seemed to take it as a point of pride that he understood Harry's standpoint so well, even if 'so well' was simply better than most of his colleagues and not really all that wholly at all. "Perhaps a little too well, wouldn't you agree, Harry?"

Harry nodded hesitantly in agreement, though he felt his cheeks flush at the sort-of compliment. He wouldn't say he was _learned_ exactly. Just slightly more so than most wizards and witches. "I guess you could say that, _Professeur_."

"Not to worry, though, not to worry." Clytine waved his hand as though brushing aside a troublesome fly. "I'm sure you'll manage this one eventually, too. You'll get there, Harry." His smile was full of confidence.

That confidence had wavered slightly over the weeks following, as everyone else progressed further and further and yet Harry unconsciously refused to follow the lead of his peers. Elmoré strove to be supportive, but her own frustration grew in tandem. She professed mutedly that she rarely felt such vexation with any of her students, the difference in this instance being that in all but Harry's conscious reconciliation of the process, he _should_ have been able to transfigure himself. Harry could see the frustration, and strove to push himself towards Elmoré's goal, or, in failing that, at least realise his definitive Animagus form so that he could demonstrate some progress for his teacher's sake.

But that was rather counter-intuitive. How could he _know_ what animal he would become if he were dubious about the very possibility of turning himself into an animal? Sure, he suspected he might be something like a cat, but he couldn't very well shed mass from himself to assume that form. Not only would it be _incredibly_ painful, he was sure, but how would he ever turn back again?

They were questions that Harry simply couldn't answer and, if he was to be completely honest with himself, didn't worry him as much as Elmoré and Clyntine's frequent assurances that he would "get there eventually" seemed to suggest it should. For Harry was happy. This one, slight hiccup in his learning, in his studies that were largely proceeding swimmingly, couldn't faze him. Not now. Especially not when everything else in his life was just going so right.

Since visiting the Dursleys, Harry felt as though a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, a weight he hadn't even realised was there until it was gone. The constant suppression of memories, the space tagged 'Dursleys' in bold letters in his mind, had been unknowingly wearying to the degree that, when the wound had been torn open, cleaned and patched up to heal properly he almost didn't know himself.

There had been the decline after the visit, the dip into silent brooding just short of depression. Harry had almost expected that. But it hadn't been for as long as Socorro had cautioned him it may last, and Harry hadn't been alone. He'd had Draco. And Draco had barely left his side throughout the entire experience; never mind that Harry was supposed to be in classes, or Draco attending to his own scholarly studies. Like a shadow, yet comforting and warm, Draco supported Harry for the weeks it had taken for the static lull to shatter and for him to begin an upward climb into recovery.

Harry knew Draco was wonderful. He loved him, like he'd never loved anyone in his entire life. As he'd never even considered loving someone. Harry knew that Draco would do anything for him, would always be there for him, just as he would be in return. Even so, it was a whole knew world of understanding to actually have the evidence to prove such confidence in his partner. Tali had actually professed her jealously of Draco's commitment – in grudging respect and grumbles, of course.

When Harry had finally heaved himself free, had reached the edge of the precipice and heaved himself onto solid ground once more, it was like flinging wide thick curtains to reveal the brightness of daylight beyond. Everything was illuminated Beautiful. Healing. The memories, they were still there and they still hurt. But they weren't debilitating. They weren't a hidden filth, something he had to struggle to thrust into the corner of his mind for fear of their dirtiness creeping into the light. He could look upon them reflectively and _see_. He could _consider_. He could recover.

It had been shortly after his awakening of sorts that Harry had finally gotten his eyes fixed. He hadn't worn his glasses since. Not once.

So yes, the difficulty with assuming his Animagus form was vexing, though evidently more so to Elmoré than to Harry himself. Draco and, to Harry's surprise, Severus – as he had insisted Harry call him for he "was not his teacher anymore" – had been working with him on that. Well, Severus had mostly been _working_ towards a solution, whereas Draco spent the majority of their discussions counter-arguing with Severus about exactly why his suggestions wouldn't work. Severus had a keen mind and a very broad approach to problem solving that Harry found very refreshing, but he was, in the end, a wizard. Even with his half-blooded heritage, it could not be denied. There were some things that Severus simply couldn't fathom of Harry's block, things that he couldn't provide a solution for. He understood Harry striving to overcome the discrepancy of masses, but couldn't perceive how Harry couldn't just rationalise it away with 'magic'.

"Because it's magic" was certainly something of a mantra in the Wizarding world.

Draco, on the other hand, was surprisingly adept at seeing Harry's perspective. Perhaps it was simply because he had a younger mind and was more open to new ideas than his godfather. Had Harry not experienced and come to expect as much from his partner, he was sure he would have been surprised that someone so completely pureblooded, raised so grounded in tradition, could so readily adopt wider views.

When Harry voiced his thoughts, Draco had only stared at him curiously for a moment before smiling slowly. "I guess you're just rubbing off on me. You and your Muggle science and progressiveness." He'd seemed rather pleased at the prospect, actually.

It was funny then, that he was so thoroughly absorbed in magical artefacts and ancient magical languages. If anything could be further from modernism is would have to be delving into the past. And Draco loved it, what he termed "the excitement and fascination" of uncovering something new, some minute detail that had been overlooked, of translating the works of those that existed thousands of years ago. He was becoming quite the scholar, and had only grown more captivated by his studies since he'd visited Turkey and the Doors of Appalyn. He was truly passionate about his career, a passion that made itself apparent when he regailed Harry with his latest work.

Draco was born to be an orator, a natural born actor. He could draw any audience into his world with a simple phrase, and even Harry, who had rarely had much of an interest in history past that which was required of him for school, had found himself drawn into his web of words. It was quite remarkable to notice how, in the past months when Draco spoke and interjected ancient vocabulary and references to the Imergyia People – his latest favourite topic because "their culture is so absolutely fascinating, to say nothing of their revolutionary magical technique" – that Harry understood every word of it. He'd picked it up quite without knowing, and even found his own interest sparked by the Imergyians. Especially their societal mechanisms and dependence upon their Runic alphabet; it was so interwoven and complex, and yet so reminiscent of the language used for modern day magic that Harry couldn't help but be intrigued.

Though Draco still professed doubts about where he would like to specialise, this latest fixation far surpassed any that had proceeded it. For Harry he found there was little question on the matter. Draco's mind seemed made up, even if he hadn't quite realised it himself.

A rustle overhead, directly above Harry in the higher reaches of a towering oak, drew him from his musing gaze of Lin and Hilary. Twisting his head, Harry narrowed his eyes to squint into the shadows. Only to lurch into a roll a moment later when a four-limbed ball of fur dropped like a falcon from the upper branches.

Settling himself with crossed legs once more, Harry regarded the new arrival with bemusement. A squirrel monkey, with golden limbs, distinctive black muzzle and impressively tufted ears, righted itself from its fall and squatted back on its haunches. Its tail flicked in disgruntlement as it bared its teeth and muttered a string of quiet chitters that sounded more like a bird twittering than any mimic of words.

"You know I can't understand you," Harry sighed, leaning backwards as he propped his arms up behind him. "If you have something to say you're just going to have to transfigure back into a human."

The monkey seemed to glare at him and even threw up one arm in a very human gesture of exasperation before, a moment of dizzying swirling and morphing later, Tali was crouching where Harry had been sitting not a minute before. Her glare was still present, but it was more of a fond glare than pure reprimand.

"I thought you were supposed to be trying to find your animal form."

Harry, his gaze having drifted back towards toward Lin and Hilary – the kangaroo had locked her arms around the gazelle's neck in an embrace of sorts that was impossible not to find adorable – glanced towards Tali and raised an eyebrow. "I was. Am."

"No, you weren't. Don't try that one on me." Again, though scolding, Tali sounded more affectionate than anything else. "You get that look on your face whenever you're thinking about Draco."

Harry's other eyebrow rose to join his first. "What? What look?"

Tali's lips quirked. "The 'I'm so lucky I have such a gorgeous boyfriend, he's the most incredible person in the world, I feel happy just thinking about him' look." The girl made an exaggerated expression of wistful pining, a small smile pursing her lips. A smile which broadened a moment later as she bit back a laugh. "That look."

"I'm not that bad."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not."

"Yes, actually," Tali shuffled to his side and dropped her chin on his shoulder. "You are."

Harry didn't even know why he was denying it. It was completely true, and the only reason that Harry didn't declare it to anyone who paused half a second to listen was simply because, well… Harry just didn't really talk to other people all that much, even now. And those that would listen – namely Tali and Neville – had both adamantly agreed that they would not hear a word of it. Neville even went so far as to claim that he had Ginny and hardly needed a relationship to compare theirs to, while Tali approached from the perspective that she found it "just too damn sickly sweet".

Draco didn't mind so much. He was always ready to inform anyone of how much he loved Harry, even if they didn't want to hear it. And if Harry felt a little guilty that he didn't do the same, such guilt was alleviated at least in part by Draco's assertion that he hardly needed Harry to preach to everyone else of the depth of their relationship. That the only one who needed to know was Harry and Draco.

Loveable hypocrite.

"See, that there, that's what I'm talking about."

Harry glanced towards Tali where she had raised her head from his shoulder to peer at him in exasperation. "What?"

"That little smile, the look on your face that says 'I'm completely content with my lot in life'."

"Well, I can't really deny that."

Tali opened her mouth to reply, then paused, her expression becoming considering. "You really believe that, don't you?"

Shrugging, Harry nodded. At the moment? Certainly. He couldn't imagine anything would be quite so drastic as to rock his perfect world on its hinges at the moment.

Staring at him with thoughtfulness that gradually faded into scepticism, Tali finally shook her head and grunted. They subsided into silence momentarily; only for a moment, of course, because this was Tali and Tali didn't understand the concept of thoughtful muteness. "Who's that?"

Sparing his friend a questioning glance, Harry turned towards where she raised a hand to gesture. To the side of the little glade, clustered in a close-knit group that excluded those around them in an insistent yet not unfriendly manner, was a quartet of people Harry hadn't seen before. That wasn't entirely unexpected, really, as Clytine – embedded in the midst of the cluster – frequently associated with specialists on school grounds. Beauxbatons Academy was something of a meeting point for a number of his associates. Harry could only assume these were similar associates given their dress code – those that worked directly with magical creatures had a uniform of sorts, from heavy, comfortable boots, work pants and a long sleeve shirt, all patterned in a matching coating of dirt and dust as though to disrobe even long enough to wash themselves was too much of a distraction from their focus. That and the wand holster strapped to each of their thighs, a precautionary measure taken by those who in general required the use of their hands at work yet needed ready access to magic all the same.

These people fit the bill to a T. Definitely associates from the field, then. That or they were more scouts for graduate employees, which was basically the same thing.

They appeared in animated discussion despite the quietness of their exchange, the sort of animation that left onlookers gazing curiously and with faint regret that they weren't a part of the conversation. Tali certainly looked as much. Personally, Harry didn't feel he shared that curiosity quite to the same degree.

"I don't know. I didn't even notice them arrive. Does it matter?"

"It matters if they're my future employers," Tali pointed out practically and Harry had to cede the truth of her words. She continued to mutter to herself, to speculate and largely project possibilities that there would likely be no way of verifying.

They finished their Animagus Assumption lesson with Elmoré in a remarkably good mood – two of her three remaining students had succeeded in transforming; it was a day to celebrate! – and headed towards the stables to put in a couple of hours of work at the pegasus stalls before dinner. It was laborious work, from mucking out those stalls to dragging unwieldy beasts from paddock to arena, a feat that often took more than three hands at once. Harry found he enjoyed it nonetheless. He'd never had much of a cause to engage in such work in the past, nothing but chores really, and though he couldn't deny that theoretical learning was fascinating and captivating, there was something grounding and thoroughly satisfying about getting one's hands dirty. Usually quite literally.

As the sun slipped below the peaked horizon, Harry propped his rake in the tool shed and wandered back through the grounds towards the stables. Even raking the pungent stalls was satisfying in its own way, and Harry wasn't the only one who tended to do so manually rather than magically. Maybe it was just that Jean had drilled it into him that magic just didn't do the trick quite as well for some reason, but he'd not taken to spelling the stalls clean once since he'd begun volunteering to assist with the pegasus.

Wandering into the darkened building, Harry was met with a jack-in-the-box appearance of nearly a dozen heads poking over steel doors. Steel because nothing else would keep the pegasus at bay, and even then the thick metal at times met its demise beneath a well-aimed strike of a granite-like hoof. Harry smiled at the image they made and, wandering along the stalls stroking snouts and tugging forelocks, he made his way to Edelweiss' stall. It was something of a habit now, to visit the filly at least once a day. Today, he'd confirmed with Tali to meet him here when they were both finished up so they could wander up to school together. Harry thought Neville might have been poking around the greenhouse nearby too and, as the other boy knew their schedule well enough by now, would likely make his way over to the stables too.

It was the end of the week and they'd undoubtedly make their way to the Academy together before parting to head for their out-of-school-grounds accommodation. For Tali, that meant taking a trip down to Madrid; Vivette was in the city for the weekend and Tali would never pass up the opportunity to see her best friend. Harry would travel instead to Paris, to the Malfoy estate. Draco had taken the trip back to the city earlier in the week for a succession of meetings with some distant correspondents from Siberia, and Harry would meet him there. Only this time Neville was coming with him. For not only would the three of them – well, four, really, as Ginny usually accompanied Neville everywhere he went when extricated from school – be spending the weekend at the estate, but their friends from Hogwarts were coming for a hastily planned visit.

Excitement had run rampant through Neville all week at the prospect of seeing Ron and Hermione in particular again. Harry had been only marginally less enthusiastic. It would be wonderful, the eight of them – Luna included, naturally – congregating once more. It had been so long since they'd all met up at once. Harry doubted he'd even have the chance to visit Edelweiss, which he strove to do even when he was off the grounds. The filly got twitchy when he was away. It was becoming a problem, really, but he hoped that some heartfelt attention before he left would ease the mulishness that arose with separation.

Edelweiss had grown remarkably in the past months and was now not much smaller than those of her fully-grown stable-mates. She was a gorgeous creature, long, slim limbs and broad chested in the way of a pegasus. The flight muscles bunching about her withers and collar had developed almost completely, tough and rippling even in stillness and simply reeking of the strength that would lift her from the ground and into flight. She was pale in colouration, taking after her mother yet even more extreme, and shone more of a brilliant white than gold in the sun, the pale feathers of her wings reflecting in equal luminescence and shimmering in a soft rainbow of colours at their tips.

Indeed a gorgeous creature, and Harry had no bashfulness when it came to claiming that she loved him. There was something about being adored by a magnificent creature that eradicated the social constraints of modesty. The feeling sort of reminded him of how he felt for Draco.

Snorting into his fringe as she towered over him, Edelweiss nickered a fond greeting as she nibbled his hair. Her ears pricked forwards, eager and attentive, dark eyes sparkling brightly with intelligence than Harry had rarely seen in animals save Lyssy. There was no denying she was wondrously smart. She seemed almost to understand him when he spoke, and he'd never even had to strap a collar around her neck to communicate. She was just _that smart._

The only difficulty was that she was only that smart for him. It had actually truly becoming a problem. Hesitant though Harry was to accept Clytine's – and Jean's – suggestion of taking the pegasus with him when he finished school – it seemed so presumptuous to do so, even when they'd nearly been begging him to do so – he felt terribly guilty enough corrupting the filly that he considered it. Clytine had assured him repeatedly that such things happened occasionally with pegasus and that it was bound to occur in one of Beauxbaton's own stock eventually, but it didn't ease his guilt any. Harry could only wince and bow his head in concession, only praying that wherever Harry and Draco ended up when he graduated would have a big enough backyard for a pegasus. And was hopefully tucked away from Muggle eyes.

Malfoy Manor was certainly looking more and more appealing, reluctant as Harry was to impose upon Narcissa's gracious allowance of their residency.

"She's head-over-heels for you, isn't she? You must be 'Arry, then?"

An unfamiliar voice drew Harry's attention from the embrace that Edelweiss had drawn him into, enormous head tucking over his shoulder and nuzzling him fondly. Ducking under her snout, he blinked confusion at the young woman leaning against an empty stall. At least she had that much sense; pegasus weren't known for their friendliness towards strangers, and often appeared to develop a taste for flesh when an unfamiliar face drifted within reach.

"Sorry? Um… who are you?"

The woman pushed herself off the stall and stepped towards him. She was relatively tall, lean in a way that bespoke a healthy taste for exercise, and unremarkable in terms of overall features except for a shock of bright blue hair sticking out in a haphazard pixie-cut from atop her head. It was the hair that was the trigger; Harry abruptly recalled her as being a member of the quartet that had been visiting Clytine at the Animagus lession that afternoon. His regard immediately became thoughtful, slightly wary. The woman's smile was friendly enough, though, and when she held out her hand – thankfully halting her approach a safe distance from Edelweiss – Harry hesitantly reached out to take it. She had a strong, no-nonsense grip, firm but not tight, that Harry immediately liked.

"I'm Ilias. I work with Ronnie Callwell at the Eastmonte Sanctuary up north." She waved a hand overhead in a pointless gesture that Harry took to be directional. He immediately brightened at the mention of her workplace, however.

"Oh? Eastmonte? You must work under Galliver, then?" Abruptly, any wariness Harry may have felt over the sudden confrontation with a stranger evaporated in the face of his excitement. He couldn't quite suppress his enthusiasm; Galliver was revolutionary when it came to magical creatures. He specialised in small to medium sized mammals and had something of a zoo upon his private estate just south of Paris. Harry had read just about all of his papers, and found them fascinating. Galliver was a storyteller as much as he was a magical creatures handler. His words embodied his passion.

Ilias' grin broadened at his abrupt turnabout. "That's the one. You've obviously heard of him?"

"Who hasn't?"

Laughing a in a loud burst of merriment, Ilias nodded. "That's true." She widened her eyes meaningfully at Harry. "And just so you know, he's even better in person than he is in his books. Absolutely fantastic."

Harry barely contained a sigh of wistfulness, reaching up to stroke Edelweiss' snout once more. "I must say I'm quite envious of you. It would be wonderful to meet him."

Ilias shrugged one shoulder. "He's not averse to it, you know. Not like a high-and-mighty celebrity or anything. He's very down to earth."

"I'm sure he's got more than enough on his plate to have time to welcome the gushing adoration of his fans."

"Not too much, though I'd recommend keeping a lid on the 'gushing'." Ilias winked conspiratorially. "When I say down to earth, I mean to the extreme. Can't abide dithering and flapping about."

Harry uttered a half-laugh as he scratched at Edelweiss' chin. "I think that's a bit of a trademark of working in the industry, don't you think?"

"Yeah, you could say that," Ilias agreed. "Ronnie's about as grounded as they come, though I think Clytine pushes the boundaries of the stereotypes a little."

"He does at that, doesn't he?" Harry smiled fondly. For all of his oddness, Clytine was wonderful. Glancing towards Ilias, who watched his fingers stroking Edelweiss curiously, he asked "Was there something that you needed? If you're looking for Jean…"

Shaking her head, Ilias settled herself onto the side of the stall with a glance behind her to ensure adequate distance from the nearest pegasus. "Not particularly. I just remembered seeing you at the Animagus lesson and noticed you heading in here. Thought I'd drop to say hi."

"What were you visiting Clytine about? Was it about the lesson?"

"Nah, couldn't give a toss about newbie Animagus," Ilias proclaimed, grinning a crooked smile. "No offence."

"None taken." For there wasn't. Harry was a bit impartial to the process himself. "So…?"

"Not much. Clytine's just trying to palm off his pygmy skimples to us again. He does the same every year with some animal or other after they've been used for his classes. Promises he'll ask someone else next year but then he crops up just before end of term same as always and tries to guilt-trip Galliver into taking them again." Ilias' grin became affectionate, scratching the side of her head and spiking her hair even more. "And Galliver, being the heart of gold he is, always takes them. Can't get enough of little creatures."

"Clytine's getting rid of them?" Harry frowned at her questioningly. The pygmy skimples had been at Beauxbatons since Harry had started and he'd assumed they were something of a permanent fixture in the ranks of magical creatures at the academy. Barely larger than a rabbit, and resembling them too save for an enormous third eye and long, cat-like tail, they were a favourite amongst the students, especially the younger ones with a taste for all things cute and fluffy. A taste that quickly diminished when the skimples grew a set of sabre-like teeth when they'd breached the twelve-month age bracket.

"Yeah, that tends to happen. Not that Clytine's cold-hearted or anything – he pretty much always sheds a tear or two when he has to give them up – but the guy's a preacher of having a fast turnover to keep the students interested."

Harry nodded his understanding. Clytine was all about promoting his subject, and the fast-paced curriculum and myriad of different creatures was a big selling point. "So you're taking them?"

"For now, yeah. At least until we can rehome them with someone else. Galliver's a preacher himself for spreading the magical creature love."

"Don't you need a permit for that sort of thing?"

"Absolutely," Ilias nodded fervently. "Or to be working in the industry, though that's basically the same thing. Which is why Galliver always tries to fob off his poor, misbegotten acquisitions to his workers."

Harry turned a smile to Ilias as Edelweiss butted his head with her broad snout once more. Her words were exasperated, yet affection still beamed strongly through. "Got your own menagerie, have you?"

"You could say that. Though I tend to have to have carnivores if I adopt any of them, and most magical carnivores are a little hard to handle."

Frowning, Harry peered at the blue-haired woman questioningly. "Why only carnivores?"

"'Cause of my Animagus form. I have a tendency to sleep in it." She grinned wolfishly. "It's a omnivore tending towards carnivory, and any creature that isn't what you'd call a 'higher-order thinker' like your pegasus would panic at the sight of my changed form."

Off-handed. Just like that, Ilias dropped the little knowledge bomb into the conversation. "You're an Animagus?" Ilias nodded, as though it were nothing incredible. Which maybe it wasn't. After all, Harry had literally _just_ been in a class with learning Animagus'. "I thought you said you didn't like them."

"I don't like _newbie_ Animagus," Ilias enunciated slowly. "There's a very distinct difference."

"Ah, I see," Harry nodded with teasing solemnity.

"Which apparently you are," Ilias continued, her face becoming thoughtful, "though from what I've seen you're not too bad."

"Um… I appreciate the compliment?" Harry replied, a question as he wasn't entirely sure it was a compliment.

Ilias only nodded recognition of his reply. "I didn't get to see you transform, though. What are you?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't know. I haven't been able to shift yet."

Raising an eyebrow, Ilias tilted her head. "What, struggling a bit?"

"I guess you could say that." Harry paused, raking his hands down Edelweiss' cheeks – the highest point he could reach – as he considered continuing. Ilias was surprisingly easy to talk to. Harry had once been terrible at conversing with others and though a lot of that had faded with experience he was still far from as adept as someone like Draco. Still, Ilias was the sort of approachable that enabled easily flowing conversation without goading. Easy talk. Which was probably why he didn't feel much compunction at all in admitting his difficulty. "I was raised by Muggles till I was sixteen, didn't start learning magic till then, and have sort of a transfiguration block."

Surprisingly, understanding dawned on Ilias' face. More understanding than Clytine expressed and certainly more than Elmoré. "Ah, I see." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "You have trouble with all transfiguration?"

Harry considered, then shrugged. "Bits and pieces here and there."

"Like?"

"Like living to non-living. Or smaller to larger."

Ilias was nodding again, thoughtful consideration painting her plain features and wrinkling her brow. "I can see where you might have a bit of trouble with transforming into your Animagus form, then."

"You do?"

"Yeah. I'm Muggleborn. Had my own difficulties in the past, though I'm proud to say I've overcome most of them."

Curious, Harry turned to face Ilias more fully. Edelweiss didn't seem to mind his distraction; she was contentedly chewing on his collar. "Difficulties like?"

"In terms of my Animagus form?" At Harry's nod, Ilias' smile became rueful once more. "Well, there was this for one." She gestured with an index finger towards her hair.

Harry frowned, confused. "Your hair?"

"It's dyed."

"Yeah, I figured as much."

Ilias snorted good-naturedly. "Well, most of the time when a witch or wizard transfigures, they assume the pelage that their animal form naturally exhibits. Mine… didn't."

Biting back a smile – he didn't think Ilias would mind his amusement, given her own rather obvious display at the hilarity of the situation, but it was still rude – he attempted to appear merely curious. "What is your Animagus form, if you don't mind me asking?"

"A dhole."

"A what?"

"A dhole," Ilias repeated. "A type of dog. Or wolf, more accurately."

"A blue dog. Unusual."

"Well, actually, it was pink at the time."

"Even better, then."

Ilias chuckled. "My Animagus instructor was horrified. I'll carry the image of his expression in my head for the rest of my life. Had me in stitches. But," and she paused, raising a finger in a teacher-like fashion before her, "my point is that keeping my natural colouring, even dyed as it was, was the only way that I could rationalise the transfiguration."

Harry regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. "So… you're saying that magic just fixed the conflict that was blocking your transfiguration."

"You could think of it like that," Ilias replied, tilting her head slightly from side to side and sucking a tooth. "Or you could think of it as magic just letting my conscious rationality have its way for once."

Blinking slowly as he considered the suggestion, Harry turned his thoughtful frown into Edelweiss' snout. Her warm breath felt warm to his cool cheek. "Would that… do you think that could work with my problem?"

"Depends," Ilias hedged. "What is your problem, exactly?"

"I'm not sure if there is an exact problem. There's quite a few."

"Then just pick the primary one. You'll probably find that, when that one sorts itself out, everything else falls into place."

"Alright," Harry paused, considering. "Well, I think one of my main problems with transfiguration is the conservation of mass –"

"Not a problem," Ilias declared immediately, interrupting him.

"What?" Harry blinked at her, startled. "No, I… I don't think I explained it right, what I'm saying is –"

"No, sorry, my fault. I think that came out wrong." Ilias hesitated considering her words. "I mean, you're worried about the law of conservation of mass, right? About either transfiguring into an animal larger or smaller than you. Right?"

Harry nodded. "Right."

"Then that's easy." Ilias raised a hand in a blasé gesture of carelessness. "Your Animagus form will just be the same mass as you are, even if the distribution is alternative."

A frown steadily worked its way onto Harry's forehead. "But what if my animal form is a different size? Wouldn't that make a difference?"

"Ah, I see your real problem," Ilias said, nodding her head in sudden comprehension. "You've got it backwards. You're thinking that you won't be able to fit into your Animagus form. It's actually the other way around."

"Meaning?"

"That your Animagus form will fit you." Shifting slightly in her slump against the stall door, Ilias crossed one foot over the other. "That's the thing; if this mass conservation is such a huge thing for you, then it will naturally feature in your subconscious selection of your Animagus form. It's that simple." And she shrugged, as though it really was.

Harry's felt his frown become thoughtful. Ilias really did make it sound simple. "So if my Animagus form carried the same mass as me…"

"Makes your search a little easier, anyway." Ilias grinned in an abrupt dissolution of the serious atmosphere. "Can't be that many that resound with you _and_ have vaguely the same size, right?"

"The size thing wasn't a problem for you, then?"

"Me? Nah, not really. Although," her grin became crooked, "you'll have to stop talking to me about this or I might wake up one morning to find I can't transfigure anymore."

"You're an Animagus, then?"

At the sound of the voice coming from the door, both Harry and Ilias glanced towards the entrance to the stable. Neville strolled casually along the wide path between the stalls, fingers wiping along his soil-stained robes in a gesture that Harry recognised as meaning he'd had his hands unearthing plants from pots all afternoon.

"You just about missed the entire conversation that explained as much but yes, I am," Ilias replied good-naturedly. As Neville approached, she held out a hand. "I'm Ilias."

"Neville," Neville replied, gingerly taking her hand in what was an obvious attempt to keep her hands clean. An attempt that Ilias effectively thwarted in her own fast grab for a handshake. She either didn't notice or didn't care that her hand pulled away streaked in grime. "Wait, did you say Ilias?"

"That's my name," she replied cheerily.

"I think there's someone looking for you over by the arena. Tall bloke with a broken nose."

Pushing herself off from the stall door, Ilias nodded gratefully to Neville's words. "Ah, that'd be Michel. I'd say we're probably heading off." Turning towards Harry, she fluttered her fingers towards him in a wave. "Nice meeting you, 'Arry. Good to chat. All the best in your transfiguration."

Raising his own hand distractedly, Harry uttered a "Yeah, you too. And thanks," as Ilias turned on her heel and left. His mind was elsewhere however. Or, more specifically, on Ilias' words. Could the situation really be that simple?

"She seemed nice. Helping you with your Animgus assumption, was she?" Neville had his back to Harry as he watched her pass through the double doors of the stables. "Who'd have thought? Animagus are cropping up everywhere. When you meet one, the rest of them are more common than bees in a beehive, huh?"

Harry was barely listening, however, and as a slow smile crept across his face he didn't really care if Neville was affronted by the fact. _Maybe it is that simple_ … _and if it is, I think I might know…_

"I don't get it, myself. The whole process just goes over my head a little I think. Though I guess you're the same…"

Neville trailed off when he glanced over his shoulder. His eyes widened in surprise, then excitement, and a broad grin spread across his face. Harry couldn't blame him for cutting off mid-sentence; he hardly even noticed. For he felt the ripple of magic surge through him, tingling all over his limbs in a way not unlike the feeling of slipping silken robes from one's arms – cool, smooth, sending a whole-body shiver over his skin.

And shrinking. Or at least falling of the ground onto four limbs instead of two.

The shivers and magical embrace gradually faded from his frame and left a jittery tremble in its wake. Harry's vision swam slightly, morphing and fuzzing before pinging back into startling clarity like a rubber band snapped loose from tautness. In that instant a disjointed emphasis of colours and shades assaulted his eyes at the same time that the overpowering scent of the stables bombarded him and the muffled sounds of pegasus in stalls and stable hands outdoors echoed into startling volume.

Shaking his head to ease the strange assault, Harry wavered into stability and grounded himself, gathering his bearings. Craning his head up towards Neville, he was immediately met with the curiously prodding snout of Edelweiss reaching down from her stall, ears pricked forwards inquisitively and snuffling his cheek. Just behind him, disconcertingly tall, Neville was grinning with an expression of sheer wonder. When he spoke his voice was distorted and loud.

"You did it! You _actually_ did it, I can't believe – no wait, I can. Of _course_ you did it." He clapped his hands in a slow applause and threw his head back, barking in laughter.

Harry grinned up at him to the best of his ability with a mouth that could no longer smile.

* * *

"You Malfoys. You never do anything by halves, do you?"

Turning his head from the conversation he'd been having with Hermione, Draco raised a questioning eyebrow at Ron. "I beg your pardon?"

From the moment they had stepped on the grounds of the Parisian estate, Ron had been off like a homing spell from a wand. Or perhaps a puppy feasting its senses upon a novel environment. Though not quite running, Ron had certainly departed from their small party in quick strides as they wandered up the winding path towards to manor proper.

Such had been the way with Ron for quite some time. He seemed incapable of standing still, as though to do so would be a waste of energy. Or of his own two feet. The exact cause of this newfound foible of sorts could be drawn precisely to the month's he'd spent in his levitating chair. Hermione often mentioned fondly how Ron claimed it a waste of his now-mobile legs to _not_ invest significant effort in powering them to the extreme. Reportedly, he'd even taking up running. As a _hobby_. The effects were quite noticeable, actually. Ron appeared trim and fit in his trainee-auror garb, more apparent without the thick red outer robe.

Draco couldn't fathom it. But then, he'd never been bereft of his legs.

"I mean," Ron reattempted, "that even though this is a secondary estate, you still have to have one of the largest properties in France."

"It's hardly one of the largest properties in France."

"Your missing my point," Ron sighed, exasperated.

Draco and Hermione shared a smirk. The young woman was similarly dressed for work – his friends had needed to depart directly after their hours finished to catch the last portkey for the day. In contrast to Ron's comfortable, fitted outfit, Hermione was clad purely Muggle in dress-trousers, white blouse and trim black jacket buttoned at the waist. She looked quite the part of a ministry representative, down to her polished black shoes. Even her hair had been tamed into civility, drawn into a tight bun that Draco fancied rather resembled McGonagall's. Hermione was far less severe, however, and her formal attire instead gave of the impression of subdued intelligence and approachability.

"That's just the majority of traditionalist purebloods, my friend," Blaise spoke up from behind Draco, fallen back as he was to chatter inanely at Luna's side. "You should see my uncle's property. Orchards as far as the eye can see and puts this," he made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the sprawling grounds and approaching manor, "to shame. A little cottage, this is."

"Cottage? Really?" Draco hooded his eyelids scathingly as he glanced over his shoulder, but Blaise only nodded sincerely.

"We Zabini's, we're more prone to emulating castles in our architecture. Or maybe palaces?"

"You 'Zabini's' are extravagant is what you are," Draco replied with an admonishing tone. Blaise hardly seemed offended. On the contrary, he appeared to take Draco's words as a compliment.

In contrast to Hermione and Ron's immersion into the rigid and procedure-driven lives of ministry worker and auror respectively, Blaise was… not. Taking over his uncle's business – in the far future, of course – did not appear to be taxing in the slightest. Draco still couldn't work out what it was that Blaise was training in – training in the loosest sense of the term it seemed, for when asked even Blaise didn't seem to really know what he was doing. He just mumbled something about international partners and goods exchange, though what goods Draco hadn't been able to draw out of him.

Whatever he was doing, however, Draco could only be happy for his friend. In the last year, Blaise had mellowed markedly, up to and perhaps beyond the affable character that Draco had been friends with for most of his life. Pansy's death – a death that still ached wistfully in Draco's chest but at a significantly more manageable level than it had been – may have appeared to have little to no effect on Blaise when he resumed his schooling in seventh year. But Draco knew better, knew it in the moments when Blaise's brow crinkled and he tightened his jaw, closing his eyes against some unseen horror. In the following joviality that was just a little too loud, a little too animated, to be entirely sincere. And in those occasional instances where Blaise had appeared lost, looking around him for something that was no longer there before shaking himself with the realisation of reality.

Now, Blaise was calmer. Happier, in a way that Draco hadn't seen before. He was almost content, something that Draco had never quite considered to be possible for Blaise. He had always seemed to be wholly in the exciting, too eager to embrace the 'next big thing', to settle in any way. But content he appeared. Casual. Laid-back.

Almost too laid-back in Draco's opinion. There was absolutely no reason for him to be sporting dirt smeared and ripped jeans, a long-sleeved plaid shirt over a white t-shirt that breathed informality. And yes, it may be warm, but were flip-flops really appropriate? How much more Muggle could he be?

When first confronted with his friend at the International Portkey terminal, Draco had raised a pointed eyebrow and pursed his lips. He hadn't needed to say a word. From his spreading grin Blaise knew _exactly_ what the issue was and Draco's disapproval seemed to bother him not in the slightest. He had merely shrugged one shoulder and exclaimed "What? I had a lazy day; had to go and pick up Luna from school before we portkeyed over, so I told my uncle I needed the day off."

To which Draco could only state with a sigh "Isn't every day a lazy day for you?" The distinct lack of reply was answer enough on Blaise's part.

For herself, Luna looked nothing if not a befuddled seventh year student unexpectedly abducted from school, a possibility not entirely unlikely when Draco considered this was _Blaise_ who had visited to pick her up. Or maybe that was just her expression – she always did appear a little dazed, and her confused, constant scanning of her surroundings could be construed as inquisitive detachment. Still an oddball, as always, she was also still dressed in her school uniform, despite the fact that Draco _knew_ she'd had time to change before Blaise picked her up. Draco wouldn't put it past her to have forgotten the weekend trip entirely. Luna had been the one to plead with Draco – yes, _plead_ – to let her come for a visit, but that didn't mean she recalled the begging incident itself.

"I quite like your house," Luna chimed in, offering an oddly supportive smile to Blaise as her side.

Blaise rolled his eyes. "For the last time, you're not coming back."

"Blaise, I really think –"

"No. Not an option. You'll freak Mother out again."

Falling back beside the blonde girl, Draco's lips curled in amusement. "What's this? What did you do?"

Luna turned towards him, waving her hand airily in a "nothing consequential" gesture, while Blaise groaned loudly as though the very memory of the situation pained him. "She started digging up Mother's flowerbeds. Looking for Smudge-dungles or whatever –"

"Smudgeons," Luna corrected.

"- which would have been bad enough except that it was Mother's _tulips_ that she was poking around in."

"Oh no," Draco bit his lip, half in commiseration – _no one_ touched Marquesa Zabini's tulips – and half in an attempt to withhold his chortling. Not entirely successfully, either. "Luna, how could you?"

"Smudgeons are a health hazard in spring," Luna explained, waving away Blaise's fingers distractedly as he tried to poke her cheek. "They give you hayfever."

"For the last time, Luna, smudgeons don't exist," Hermione said wearily. Draco got the impression that the discussion was one of many on the topic. "Hayfever is a perfectly natural occurrence in spring –"

"That's why some people call it pollinosis," Blaise interrupted.

Ron, falling into step on Blaise's other side, nudged him with an elbow. "Big words for someone with a monosyllabic vocabulary."

"Speak for yourself," Blaise replied, tilting his nose in the air.

"I'll be sure to check your garden for you, Draco," Luna offered, completely oblivious to Hermione's resumed rant on the phenomena of allergic rhinitis. "Just to be sure."

"That's very kind of you, Luna, but I'm sure the house elves have any Smudgeon situation we may be experiencing well handled."

"House elves _plural_ ," Ron butted in, leaning around Blaise and Luna to stare pointedly at Draco. "You see what I mean? Completely over-the-top. Unnecessary. In excess and, um…"

"Superfluous?" Hermione supplied. She was frowning at the mention of house elves, but to Draco's relief didn't initiate a round of S.P.E.W. propaganda. Her investment in that particular cause at least seemed to have declined slightly since leaving school. Or maybe it was just that the issues of Muggle-Wizard relations was just too consuming of brain-space.

"Exactly!" Ron agreed. "The Burrow's got nothing on this, and we get by just fine. And there's only, what, two of you? Plus Harry?"

"Four altogether, if you count Severus," Draco revised. The comment elicited a few smirks of its own; Blaise and Ron revelled in any chance to jibe at the potential for Severus being Draco's 'future dad'. "But it's not like it's mine or anything."

"What? What do you mean?" Ron's enthusiasm slipped into confusion.

"Well, it's not like _I_ own it. The property is my mothers. And for the foreseeable future, Harry and I will live with her."

There was a moment's silence as they continued walking, broken only by their soft footsteps on smooth pavers. Sparing a glance for his friends as he took the first step up onto the front patio, Draco frowned. Varying degrees of incredulity fitted upon each face, even Luna's if only slightly. "What?"

Ron and Hermione exchanged meaningful glances, but it was Blaise that replied. "Who are you and what have you done with Draco Malfoy?"

Scowling, Draco turned on the step, slightly elevated enough to gaze down even upon Blaise's greater height. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, come on, Draco, you know you've always been a spoilt, arrogant little sod," Ron said, his tone paradoxically affectionate. "And you just claimed that _this house_ was not yours but belongs to your mother?" A brief pause, before Ron demanded, "Where's your sense of entitlement?!"

Scowl slipping in exchange for a roll of his eyes, Draco turned and continued up the steps. "I guess you could say Harry's had a rather profound influence on me."

"You can say that again," Ron muttered, but that was the last of it as they followed Draco into the house.

Truth be told, Harry _had_ been a remarkable influence on Draco. An influence that he was only aware of when someone such as Ron pointed out the marked changes from his past "spoilt, arrogant little sod" self as he so articulately described him. Like his newfound interest in magical creatures, or his tendency to wear Muggle clothing as often as, if not more than, wizards clothing. Like his attitude towards Muggles in general, or respect for non-magical science. Or the fact that he'd learned bloody _French_ and could actually claim to be quite taken with living in Paris.

That he presented a perhaps slightly less entitled front than that he used to wear was just one of the many changes that Draco was aware he'd undergone, to say nothing of those he was oblivious to, of which he was certain there must be at least some. For really, it was hard not to quell such privileged beliefs in the face of Harry's polar opposite attitude. It was almost a problem that Harry never saw anything as being his own, with the exception of that which he'd physically built with his own two hands. And even that was pushing it at times; if Draco had to listen one more time to the fact that Harry "could hardly take credit for the dinner when he'd simply gone and purchased the exact ingredients from a store" and that "following a recipe didn't afford him onus", then Draco feared he may start knocking his head against the nearest wall.

Hell, Harry's persistent reluctance to live at Malfoy Manor because it might be "intruding upon Narcissa's space" had even begun to elicit an uneasy consideration in Draco. Maybe they should find their own place? At least, he felt uneasy until he'd suggested it to his mother and she had nearly dissolved into tears at the prospect. And Narcissa was hardly one to cry. After that, and prevailing the situation upon Harry, Draco's partner had eventually agreed to their future residency.

For which Draco was quite satisfied with, actually. Wandering through the atrium and down the primary hallway from the front door, he could even take a detached moment to appreciate the whitewashed walls, the finesse put into the welding of the artistic sconces and the intricate patterning of the cornices. Even the floorboards in their mottled grain were an exemplary demonstration of prestigious woodwork. And he didn't snort and look down his nose at his friend's comments of appreciation, of Hermione's open-mouthed wonder at the open rooms and modest but refined upholstery or Luna's dreamy recognition of the skill of the artists whose works hung from the walls. Even Ron, for all of his degrading attitude towards Draco's "rich-boy estate" appeared wistfully appreciative as he followed Draco's lead towards the back patio.

Stepping onto the outdoor area, the small party immediately fell into a flurry of action. Cries of welcome and exclamations of "Finally!" sprung from Neville and Ginny as the pair descended upon the new arrivals. Ginny flung herself onto Hermione and Luna both in a three person embrace while Neville, only slightly less jubilant, exchanged slaps on the back and one-armed hugs with the rest of the young men before being dragged into the arms of Hermione, who somehow managed to extricate herself from Ginny's enthusiastic clutches.

"It feels like I haven't seen you in forever!"

"Talk about taking your time, Ginny and I have practically eaten all of the gingerbread."

"Sorry, I didn't get off work till five –"

"By which he means he was got distracted talking to Jigson about the Cannons again."

"Hey!"

"No harm, no foul. Hold on, I'll call for some more tea. Dippy!"

Glancing around as his party of friends moved back towards the single yet admittedly expansive round glass table at one end of the patio, Draco cocked an eyebrow at Neville questioningly. Before he could breathe a word, however, Luna beat him to it.

"Where's Harry?"

Pausing in his tussle with Blaise for prime seating positioning before the cookie bowl, Neville glanced towards her. "Hmm?" He growled a moment later when Blaise managed to assume said seat, and promptly threw himself heavily down upon his friend, much to the distress of Blaise apparently, who uttered a muffled cry from beneath him.

"Harry," Draco reiterated, taking a step backwards towards the hallways indoors to peer inside, as if to simply check behind him might conjure his partner.

"Oh, yeah," Neville grunted heavily as Blaise finally heaved him into the next chair. Around him, Ron and the girls found their own seating. "He's… around."

Which, naturally, made Draco immediately suspicious. "Around?"

"That's very cryptic of you, Nev," Blaise commented through the crumbs of a biscuit he'd shoved into his mouth.

"Is something wrong?" Hermione blinked in rising alarm, abruptly sitting up straight in her seat.

"Oh, it's not anything _wrong_ ," Neville drawled, and Draco suspicion immediately intensified. Neville was not the subtlest of individuals. "He's just about. Was with Lyssy, last I saw. Chasing each other round…"

"Chasing?" Ron grinned crookedly. "What is he, a two-year-old?"

"I wouldn't say two," Neville continued, tilting his head to the side in obviously feigned thoughtfulness. A smile quivered on his lips. No, Draco considered, he was not subtle at all. "But he's certainly got the energy of a toddler. Hasn't sat still all afternoon. Racing around like a loon."

"Harry?" Blaise slouched back in his chair, sceptical. "Our Harry?" Draco couldn't blame him. Harry was quite possibly the calmest, most sedate people he'd ever met.

Neville nodded, the smile cracking through. "I suppose you could even say it's… _inhuman_."

It took barely a moment for Draco to realise the connotations of Neville's words. As exclamations of bafflement and frowns of confusion burst from the rippled of his friends, Draco felt a wide smile split his face.

Through the rising volume of questions, he uttered a questioning, "You mean he finally…?"

Neville's broad grin in reply and vigorous nod was all Draco needed for confirmation. An instant later he spun on his heel and raced back indoors. The cries of "What? What is it?" followed him, as well as Luna's practical "Oh… I wonder what he is?"

Trust Luna to have realised it straight away too.

Pulling his wand from his pocket, Draco muttered a quick " _Point-Me-Harry"_ and an instant later bolting towards the atrium and up the main stairwell at the direction of the Finder Charm. Harry would have raised an eyebrow at the use of the spell, murmuring a quiet "was that really necessary?" when Draco could just have easily searched with his eyes and own two feet. But this was _exciting_. And though Draco had learned to appreciate doing the little things, the manual tasks – there was something so much more satisfying about brushing ones teeth with a toothbrush rather than using a dental _Mundum_ Charm – it hardly seemed the time to abide by one of Harry's unspoken suggestions that were basically rules.

His Finder lead him up another flight of stairs to his own suites, and Draco had to admit in the logical corner of his mind that he probably could have anticipated the location quite easily without the use of magic. Poking his head through the door, he cast a quick scan of the room.

No Harry. Or any other weird and wonderful creature whose shape he may be assuming.

There was Lyssy, however, sitting placidly before the open doors of the veranda. As he entered the room, she drew her gaze from the veranda and blinked up at him. Those strangely intelligent eyes seemed somehow smug; Draco didn't need to be wearing the counterpart to the communication collar to realise that. She was far too smart for a simple cat – even for a Familiar, he considered – and proved it once more by turning back towards the open doors and nodding her head.

What had the world been like when cat's had been simply cats and not figures of guidance and magical influence? Draco couldn't remember.

He saw him as soon as he stepped outside, though really it would have taken a blind man to overlook him. Stretched along the wide sandstone balustrade, head and front paws hanging over the end, the unbroken blackness of his fur contrasted brilliantly with the reflective whiteness of the stone beneath him. Small ears twitching at what Draco realised were a trio of birds on the overhang beneath the veranda – evidently what was consuming his attention – flicking in tandem with the sweeping of an strangely long, thick tail. He would have been intimidating, simply because of his size, except for the fact that… well, surely something so fluffy couldn't _really_ be dangerous. Surely not.

It was almost funny, how well the figure of the giant cat suited Harry. Long, lean and flexible limbs, the elegant rise of his jutting shoulder blades, the rich thickness of dark pelt. Even the not-quite-stillness of his carriage. He seemed to embody gracefulness without trying.

He was beautiful. But then Draco always thought Harry was beautiful. Why would his Animagus form be any different?

"I should have guessed you would be a cat." Draco paused, considering. "Well, truth be told, I kind of expected it."

At his words, the giant cat raised his head and glanced over his shoulder with whip-fast speed. Harry's startling green eyes met his own over a broad, flat nose and bearded cheeks, familiar yet different for their placement in the face of a cat.

In an instant, Harry rose onto his feet, perched on his haunches and, in a disconcerting ripple effect, shed the skin of the cat. With a brevity that defied the complexity of the act, Harry, Draco's Harry, sat in place of the incredible beast, familiar, petite features replacing the feline countenance, pale skin where fur had covered. He swung his legs slightly as they hung from the balustrade, a smile blossoming on his lips.

"Truth be told, I kind of expected it too."

Stepping onto the veranda, Draco sauntered towards his partner, pausing just before him to lean forward and place both hands on the balustrade either side of him. He smirked up into Harry's face, the balustrade elevating him taller than Draco for once. Barely half a foot stood between them. "And yet you seemed so disinclined to assume it. I would have conceded the delay if you had been an ugly cat, perhaps, but…" Running his eyes down Harry's naked figure, pale skin aglow in the afternoon light. He raised a pointed eyebrow. "I expect this will be a recurring issue?"

"What, the absence of clothes?"

Draco nodded. "Not that I'm complaining particularly, but if you ever wanted to shift in anywhere remotely public it might draw a few eyes."

"Well, what do you expect?" Harry cocked his head as though genuinely curious. "Where exactly would a leopard stow my clothes when I wore its shape?"

Choosing to ignore the question as rhetorical, Draco leant forward until not two inches separated their faces. "Is that what you were then? A leopard?"

Harry nodded, though shrugged one shoulder a moment later. "Snow leopard. Or at least that's what Clytine suggests. From the shape and all. Though obviously my pelage is a different morph to what is natural."

"Obviously," Draco replied with a grin. "Though personally, I quite like it. Besides, you match Lyssy. I suppose that's because of your, what do you call it…?"

"Problem?"

"Hardly a problem." Draco waved away the term with a waft of one hand.

Harry laughed again. The sound was pure delight. It seemed that not even the trials he had faced attempting to fulfil the form dissuaded him from appreciating the outcome. "Yeah, I guess you could say that. Managed to work my way around it, though."

"And that," Draco leant in closer, pressing a brief kiss upon Harry's lips, "is a story you'll have to save for later."

"Hmm?" Harry blinked down at him, puzzled and pausing in the act of settling an arm around Draco's neck.

"We have guests."

"Oh. Oh! I completely forgot! I just got distracted –"

"Understandably. You were a cat watching birds."

"- and I must have lost track of the time." Peering down around him as though gauging the distance to the veranda floor from his perch – it was high enough that it would take a slight jump on his part – Harry spared Draco a glance. "Are they all here? Already?"

Which was, of course, the precise moment that Blaise decided to interrupt them.

"Hello! Finally found – oh, hey, a little warning next time," taking only one step out onto the veranda, Blaise immediately stumbled back inside. "You might want to tell a bloke when you're going starkers, Harry."

"To be fair, you were the one that invaded our suite," Draco drawled, biting back a chuckle at both Blaise's reaction and the flush that quickly flooded Harry's cheeks. He shrugged out of his outer robe and handed it to Harry as his partner slipped down from the balustrade.

"Oh, so it's 'our' suite now, is it?" Blaise poked his head around the doorway and wriggled his eyebrows. He waved a hand at Harry in greeting, nodding his chin. " _Ciao_ , Harry. Long time no see. And I can't say that I didn't appreciate what I have seen to make up for such time apart." Another wiggle of his eyebrows sent Harry's blush spiralling into an even deeper red and huddling himself further into Draco's robe. For all of his misgivings about the situation, Draco found it incredibly adorable.

Rising to his speechless partner's defence, Draco sighed in exasperation. "Would you mind not ogling Harry, Blaise? If you're so desperate for a boyfriend – or girlfriend, as I know you're more partial to the feminine sex – then go and find one for yourself."

Blaise pouted. "Aw, but no one suits me. Can't find the right bird. I'd always prefer to snog someone I knew and was close to anyway. None of that casual affair shit."

"Then date Luna. You know her –"

"Luna? Blurgh!" Blaise looked horrified at the prospect, which Draco thought rather cruel until he continued. "I could hardly corrupt such a sweet, gentle soul as _Luna_. It would be… it would be…"

Glancing over his shoulder at Harry, who appeared to be using him as a shield of sorts, Draco tilted his head in a pointed nod towards Blaise. "What do you think? Going to happen?"

The flush finally died slightly from Harry's cheeks as his smile returned. "Definitely."

"No, not definitely! I could hardly contemplate it. She's like a – a good friend. A little sister!"

"Now, now, you shouldn't refer to future girlfriends as your sister Blaise," Draco reprimanded soothingly. "That would make your relationship seem incestuous."

"She's not my – she's not _going_ to be my –"

"I never thought of Blaise to be one so stubbornly in denial," Harry murmured just loud enough to be heard.

Draco had to bite back a chuckle of laughter as Blaise flicked his glance between the two of them, mouth opening and closing as he fought to produce words. From the slight trembles he felt from Harry pressed to his back, he thought he wasn't the only one.

Finally Blaise released a strangled groan. "You two are ridiculous. How could you even -?"

"Denial is an sorry sight to behold," Draco sighed with dramatic sorrow. "What do you think, Harry? I give it at least fifty-fifty that they'll be an item before Christmas."

"Hmm… I'd bump that up to sixty-forty, actually," Harry replied, doing a good job of false seriousness.

Blaise uttered another crackling groan, his eyes blown wide in continued horror, before throwing both hands into the air and spinning on his heel to disappear back inside. A distant "Unbelievable!" rung through the room before the door to their suite was, graciously, slammed shut.

Finally releasing his bottled laughter, Draco reached behind him to wrap and arm around Harry's shoulders, drawing him into his side. "You really think it's going to happen?"

Harry shrugged, dropping his head to Draco's shoulder. "I think it's got about as much chance of happening as it does of being the last possible relationship on earth. They're so different, the two of them."

"That could work in their favour." _It did for us_ , Draco added silently. And though he kept the thought to himself, he was sure Harry heard it too.

"Stranger things have happened." Harry smiled fondly, and there was such affection on his face that, even though it wasn't directed towards him, Draco felt his heart swell in his chest. He dropped a kiss onto Harry's temple, slipping into a two-armed embrace and tightening his hold.

"You're incredible, you know that?"

Draco didn't know what he was talking about exactly. It could be the boundless love, the tolerance for the whims of his friends. It could be the skill of becoming an Animagus, a skill that to Draco bordered on the impossible. Or it could simply be that Harry _was._

Turning his face up to Draco's, Harry smiled questioningly. It had taken a while for him to receive such compliments without immediately countering them, but even though the dubiousness remained in his eyes Draco was contented that he no longer shrunk from his words. He even smiled as he leaned upwards for another kiss.

"You know what? So are you."

Draco didn't deny it, though whether that was for any truth of the words or because his lips were otherwise occupied remained to be seen.


	14. A Time For Joy

"You are jealous."

Draco turned his glare upon Tali. A lesser person would have quailed beneath such intense ferocity, but Tali simply found it amusing. Because it _was_. He was like an indignant oversized parrot, his feathers all ruffled. Tali found few things in life more satisfying that prodding Draco into disgruntlement.

"I am not jealous."

"Yes. Yes, you are. And denying it only makes you seem more guilty."

Scowling with a curl of his lip, Draco shifted his regard back to Harry and Ophelia. His scowl only deepened the longer he stared. He seemed positively writhing at the image that they made.

And they did make quite a sight, the two slight figures conversing quietly not twenty feet away before the little café. Harry was the type of person to attract attention when he didn't realise it, with his distraction stripping the layers of guardedness from his exterior to reveal an unusual but nonetheless eye-catching presence beneath. He was like a rough gem, unpolished and unassuming when he veiled himself, only to shine with brightness and purity when his bashful veils fell away. It was so rarely seen that even Tali found herself a little enchanted.

Ophelia was another hidden gem, though one more likely overlooked for her diminutive size. Somehow, she managed to look more petite than Harry. Even shorter than he, the porcelain doll-like girl drew attention instead _because_ of her shyness. Large, downcast eyes, a cascade of straight, copper hair that hung to her elbows and skin so pale it seemed to glow in the midday sun. No one would ever guess that Ophelia loved nothing more than to play-wrestle with her pet sheep dog and had grown up on a farm mucking stalls and feeding livestock. At least she did according to Harry.

The two of them together looked like a scene from one of those tourist postcards. It was no wonder that Draco was disgruntled.

Not that Draco didn't make quite a sight himself, Tali contemplated. Tall and lean, his dark robes hugged his figure to the best advantage, offering hints of a naturally well-defined frame beneath, only enhanced by the prestige that came from being a scholar of Ancient Runes. And that was to say nothing of his classical features; Tali had heard of likening certain individuals to Roman gods in the past, and when she was able to overlook the sheer pompousness he adopted in public she could believe the accuracy of such analogies. No one should rightly have such perfectly symmetrical features and it was simply a crime that he managed to achieve immaculate golden locks of pure silk while Tali had been blessed with a rather depressing array of wiry curls.

Not that Draco looked to be particularly favoured at the moment. With each passing second, his expression darkened until Tali became convinced that passing wizards and witches were giving them a wide birth for the malevolent aura that emitted from him in waves.

Sighing at the disruption of her fun, Tali raised a hand to nonchalantly study her fingernails. "Calm down, Draco, honestly. Ophelia is just someone from Eastmonde. Zey are talking about work."

Draco's frown didn't lift, but at least it halted in any further descent. "She's from Eastmonde?"

" _Oui_. Zey will be working togezer come next month. And trust me, you 'ad better get used to ze idea of zem talking, as it will be 'appening quite a lot wizout your constant supervision." She couldn't keep the mirth from her voice and Draco likely heard it for his scowl flickered to her briefly once more.

Before he could even open his mouth, however, Tali continued. "Besides, you should not be jealous of _Ophelia_. She is not interested in 'Arry, not zat way, and even is she was 'Arry's about as straight as a pretzel. I zought you'd know zat, at least."

The analogy to Vivi's favourite Muggle snack seemed to stump Draco momentarily. "A pretzel?"

"If you were going to get possessive and jealous," Tali continued, ignoring his question as another predatory taunt rose in her mind, "I suggest you be more concerned for Andre from school."

"Andre?" Draco was starting to sound a bit like a parrot instead of just looking like one.

" _Oui_. 'E 'ad something of an schoolboy crush on 'Arry all zrough sixth year. I believe 'e even wished to pursue a career with magical creatures because 'Arry was doing so. You 'ad best be careful."

Which, of course, was the final crushing blow to Draco. Tali couldn't quite keep her merriment from showing at the widening of Draco's eyes, the expression of absolute horror that slackened his jaw and drew his eyebrows downward. It was really just too easy to push his buttons.

It wasn't true, of course. Oh, Andre had once had – and likely still did – a debilitating crush on Harry, one that Tali firmly believed, though Harry denied, was a large part of his interest in magical creatures. But Draco hardly needed to 'be careful'. Anyone with half a brain – which even Andre possessed – could tell that Harry was well and truly head-over-heels in love with Draco. He had rarely spoken of him at school; he didn't have to. Whether it was a magical phenomenon or simply the atmosphere that shrouded him, Harry had always breathed a very 'taken' impression.

But even if Andre had been cause to worry once, he was hardly of concern now. Harry had never been close to the tall, thin boy from _Papillonlisse_ , despite how hard Andre tried to remedy the fact, and since finishing school nearly a month ago Tali knew they hadn't contacted one another once. Not that Tali could really blame either of them for not doing so. The post-school engagement in determining 'what to do with one's life' had everyone firmly within their grasp.

Harry had a traineeship under Galliver at Eastmonde Sanctuary. Of course he did; why wouldn't he manage to fall into the doting embrace of one of France's leading magical creatures experts? Not that Tali wasn't happy for him. Far from it, she had been nearly as excited as him when Harry had received his letter reply of acceptance. Even if she was perhaps a little envious, the disgruntlement couldn't hold a candle to the enthusiasm that radiated from the usually quiet young man. That evening had been the most talkative Tali had ever heard her friend.

For herself, Tali was on the brink of accepting a position in the Iberian Leviathan Protection Project – or the ILPP – that sought to protect the threatened creature that had taken up residence off the coast of Barcelona. It was a long-winded project with little to no experience necessary except for a N.E.W.T. in magical creatures studies and an enthusiasm for aquatic beasts.

Tali could hardly maintain her envy of Harry when she felt such enthusiasm for her own potential position. For potential it was; she only had to post a reply and it would be hers. Tali had always harboured a fondness for marine creatures, and the bigger the better. What could be more exciting then potentially endangering herself for the protection and conservation of an aggressive sea monster? Nothing, that's what. She would have already sent her owl had it not been for one small detail, one aspect of the position that she wasn't yet so certain of. Something that seemed even more daunting than facing potential consumption by a leviathan.

Shaking off the brooding concern that threatened to descend, Tali adopted an expression of bright cheer as Harry, waving to Ophelia as she turned down the street, wandered back towards them. His thoughtful expression immediately became concerned when his gaze flickered to Draco.

Wandering slowly within earshot, Harry glanced up from his thoughtfulness to immediately ducked his head slightly, peering worriedly at his boyfriend. A frown settled upon his brow. "Draco? Are you alright?"

Draco, to his credit, made an admirable attempt at composing himself. Even if it wasn't quite successful. "Everything alright? Something about work?"

Harry regarded Draco with his deepening frown before replying slowly. "Yes. Fine. We were just talking about setting up a meeting with Ilias sometime before starting, to have a visit of the Sanctuary." He didn't look like he was fooled by Draco's attempts at diversion at all.

As the altruistic person that she was, Tali stepped in to patch up the situation. It had nothing at all to do with the faintly humour-ridden guilt that nudged at her like a persistent elbow for so provoking Draco. "Ophelia is just as nervous as you, zen?"

Sighing as he shifted his attention to Tali instead, Harry rolled his eyes. "For the last time, I'm not nervous –"

"Sure you are not. Zat's why you've sent nearly a 'undred letters to Ilias and Galliver in the past week, studied every possible paper zat's been churned out of ze place, and know every animal zey currently 'ave on site by name, age, and exact _physique_ description."

"So? That's normal for a new employee. I'm just acquainting myself with –"

"Zere's two-'undred and zirteen creatures zere, 'Arry. I 'ardly zink zat Galliver will expect you two know all of zem before you even begin."

"I'm just getting prepared –"

"You got ze position five days ago, 'Arry. Calm down or I shall 'ave to sit on you again."

Harry snorte, but didn't object further and instead fell into step beside Tali and Draco as they resumed their walk out of Wizarding Paris. He spared a glance for Draco, but from what Tali could determine the taller young man had regained most of his composure. Even the deadly aura of doom that had previously swamped him seemed to have dissipated slightly with Harry's return.

Enough for him to slip his hand easily into Harry's when Harry reached for it. Such a love-struck pair, even after being together for over two years. God forbid that they might not be _holding hands_ for all of two minutes. And Harry had been talking to Ophelia for nearly five!

Rolling her eyes, Tali led the way down the increasingly crowded street towards the nearest Apparation point. They were spending the evening at Harry's godfather's house. Sirius always bemoaned that Harry didn't visit enough, though whenever Tali read such complaints over Harry's shoulder as he scanned Sirius' letters he waved them off. According to Harry, Sirius was very much occupied in his new job as an _Auror de Paris_ , at least when he wasn't cuddling up to Anouk. Tali had seen the evidence of the latter with her own eyes. It came as no surprise nearly two months ago when they'd announced their engagement. The biggest surprise was that it had taken them so long. In terms of single-minded adoration for one another, Tali had only seen their rivals in Harry and Draco.

Cracking into existence before the modest single-story flat now currently owned by one Sirius Black, Tali led the way up the paved path between rows of overgrown shrubs. Sirius wasn't a gardener – he didn't even know the most rudimentary of gardening spells, though Harry and Anouk had both reportedly attempted to teach them to him – and it was probably a blessing that the front yard was barely large enough for a table and chairs. Otherwise Tali thought that they would likely be wading through a jungle to reach the front door.

Draco appeared to be of a like mind as Tali for he snorted and quipped a scathing, "Sirius still can't manage a simple _Tondendas_ Charm then?"

Glancing over her shoulder, Tali saw Harry frown at him over his own shoulder as he followed Tali. They'd had to release their handhold to step up the path or risk becoming sucked into the long grasses on either side of them. "Is that such a problem? He says he likes the grass long."

"He 'likes the grass long' because he can't work out how to magically mow it," Draco replied smugly.

"And I suppose you're an expert in the field of magical gardening?" The pitch of Harry's voice told Tali exactly what he thought on _that_ subject. "Had a lot of reason to perform Shearing Charms have you?"

Tali bit her lip to hold back a giggle at the sound of Draco's self-righteous sniff. "At least I'm capable of doing as much."

"Then by all means." Glancing over her shoulder once more as she ascended the steps up the little front veranda, Tali caught sight of Harry's inviting gesture to the overgrown greenery.

Draco just managed to remedy his expression of distaste – he looked a little overwhelmed at the prospect suggested to him – before sniffing once more. "If Sirius can't be arsed to tame his front garden himself, then he should get a house elf. I hardly think it reasonable to assume that I'd do it for him."

Tali shook her head and walked up to the front door. It opened easily for her; Sirius never used the lock, favouring Detection Charms that cast out unwelcome intruders instead. Tali had been keyed into the charms for as long as she'd know Sirius. Or at least until Sirius had overcome his initial wariness of her. He was like that.

Harry and Draco followed her indoors, still bantering with one another. It spoke fallacy of the strain in Draco and Sirius' relationship that he too was keyed into the wards. Harry had told her that, once upon a time when Draco and Sirius had been even more at each other's throats than they were now, Harry's godfather had gone so far as to bar him from entry to his house. Briefly, of course, as Harry refused to come in doors if Sirius kept "acting like a child". Sirius had eventually let Draco in, though that hadn't stopped him from repeating his attempts each time Draco visited. At least for the first few months, anyway.

Now, Tali was fairly certain they were on moderately good terms. Or at least not trying to rip each other apart at any given opportunity. On the few instances Tali had been party to their exchanges, they still exchanged clipped words that bordered on nastiness but to her at least it seemed like they actually quite enjoyed themselves. As though they revelled in the chance to exchange verbal blows with someone who could withstand their force. Harry apparently felt the same, for he didn't bat an eyelid at such exchanges anymore.

" _Hé_ , _Monsieur_ Black! Are you 'ome yet?" Tali's voice rung through the stillness of the house, bouncing off walls before returning to her without a reply.

"He said he was picking up dinner on the way back," Harry informed her as they filed into the living room past the closed bedroom doors. As one they settled into plump couches arranged in a half-circle and consuming most of the room. Draco immediately reached for the television remote and switched on the light-box with a deliberate press of the red button. Muffled sounds of jovial voices filled the room. Tali rolled her eyes as she slumped back into her single armchair. For someone who had grown up without the wonders of Muggle technology, Draco was certainly making the most of the adaptations French techno-magicians were conducting on the objects. Tali was not completely unfamiliar with the devices herself – _she_ hadn't been living under a rock – but that didn't mean she leapt at every chance to press a button of click an appliance into life.

They chattered lightly in the living room as the afternoon sun faded, watching but not really seeing the show playing – some soap about a doctor and his long-lost fiancée, apparently – and simply relaxing in one another's company. There was a time where such would have been largely impossible, if not unfathomable. Tali and Draco hadn't gotten off to a swimming start, mostly because they were two very similar personalities in terms of stubbornness and willingness to bend to accommodate those around them. Time had healed that. Or maybe it was just simply that that same stubbornness insisted they become friends or risk Harry's displeasure. Which wouldn't have seemed like such a big thing to someone who knew Harry only slightly well. His friends knew better.

"I still can't believe that Luna was the first one to do it," Draco muttered. His feet, free of their shoes, were propped across Harry's lap in a casual slouch that would have left most people blinking in astonishment at the sheer contrast to his public stateliness. Tali had witnessed the transition too many times for it to surprise her anymore, however. Not that she ever admitted to being surprised in the first place.

"It doesn't surprise me."

Draco snorted, nudging Harry's belly with a heel of one foot until Harry batted it away. "I don't believe you. This is Luna."

"Exactly. You might think she's a little odd –"

"A _little_ odd?"

" –but she's a very strong and decisive person. When she makes a decision, she goes for it."

"I can believe zat," Tali chimed in. She'd only met Luna twice but she quite liked the girl and her quirkiness. And even after such limited exposure she could realise the truth of Harry's words. Maybe Draco was just being pointedly obtuse?

"Quite, sheep, you'd just agree to what Harry says."

"I would not, and if you are going to liken me to an animal, at least restrict it to my Animagus form." Tali pouted indignantly.

Lifting himself up slightly in his seat, Draco shot her a raised eyebrow. "That would hardly be an insult. It's your soul's animal form. It's not like you're going to hate it."

"Exactly my point."

"You're not making any sense." Draco fell back into his slouch with a huff. "I'm starting to think you just natter meaningless replies when you know you're beaten."

"Just like changing ze topic is your way of avoiding admitting defeat?"

"I'm not defeated –"

"Really? Must we?" Harry broke in with an exasperated sigh. "I'd hoped we'd moved past the bickering of ten year olds."

"Ten year olds zis time?" Tali cocked her head in false surprise.

In unspoken collaboration, Draco similarly regarded Harry questioningly. "What's this, have we grown past your usual likening of us to six year olds?" He turned an incredulous gaze towards Tali. "You hear that, Tali? We've just aged four years!"

Tali couldn't hold back the snicker as Harry sighed again, closed his eyes and touched a hand to his forehead. "You two are as bad as each other."

"Do not insult me."

"Hardly, Harry. She's got nothing on my charm."

"Shut up, the pair of you."

Both Tali and Draco descended into further snickering. Harry regarded them both with narrow eyes, but couldn't quite withhold his own smile.

It was Draco who recovered first, and he abruptly switched back to their forgotten conversation. "Seriously, though, I would never have picked Blaise to fall to Luna's charms."

Harry shifted the feet on his lap. "Wasn't it you who claimed fifty-fifty?"

"I would 'ave guessed seventy-zirty," Tali murmured.

"Yes, it was, but I thought that if it was going to happen then _Blaise_ would have been the one to initiate it. He's got to be one of the most assertive people I've ever met."

"Ah, but assertiveness does not always correlate with quick-zinking," Tali informed, holding up a finger. "Blaise is friendly enough, but 'e does seem a little slow in some areas."

"Tell me about it," Draco agreed, smirking. "You should have seen him with Pansy. Pansy…" He paused, and an expression of sorrow flickered over his features for a moment. Tali felt her smile die in sympathy; she might go head-to-head with Draco, abusing every weakness he dared to reveal, but even she was not so heartless as to provoke him in this instance. Harry had told her of Pansy and she knew their old friend had been close to Draco. Even if more than two years had passed, her absence was obviously still deeply felt.

Draco shook off his slump after a moment and plastered a half-smile on his face that gradually settled from artificiality into naturalness. "They were hopeless, the pair of them. Pansy had been eyeing him for years but Blaise was too oblivious to realise it. I never did ask which one of them made the first move."

"It was Pansy," Harry affirmed, a fond smile on his own face though wistful sadness similarly touched his lips. "Apparently Millicent was sniffing around him and she saw her as a… threat."

Draco's eyebrows rose before he let out at burst of laughter. "Should have known. Of course Pansy would have been the one to do it." He clicked his tongue. "Well, if I'd known that, I might not have been so surprised with the Luna Situation. I wonder what pushed her into making a move?" He paused and shook his head minutely, incredulity apparent. " _Luna_. Making a _move_. Can't imagine it."

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe Blaise was being his usual flirt and Luna saw the need to act."

"Yes, jealousy does urge people into some rather forward acts at times," Tali pondered aloud, her gaze drifting with discrete purposefulness towards Draco. The glare that he sent her was enough to inform her that he wasn't ignorant of the reference to their discussion during Harry's occupation with Ophelia early that afternoon.

"I don't think there would have really been a need to act so forwardly if she wasn't comfortable with it," Harry rationalised. "I don't know, I might be looking upon the past with skewed vision, but I get the feeling Blaise wouldn't have really started anything with anyone _besides_ Luna."

"Oh, I do not know, 'Arry. Sometimes, when ze option is zere and ze one you care about isn't, it may lead to a natural beginning." Her gaze was still fastened upon Draco, who was savagely spearing her with the daggers shooting from his eyes.

Harry finally appeared to pick up on the silent communication between them that he'd been overlooking. His cast his own baffled frown to Tali. "What are you talking about?"

Smiling in self-satisfaction, Tali nodded her head towards Draco. "Oh, I'm sure Draco would _love_ to tell you."

"Shove off, Nataliha," Draco grumbled, resorting to her full name in irritation. But Tali was having too much fun to even care at that point.

"What?" Harry shifted his attention to Draco, his voice curious but with an underlying demand that left Tali delightfully squirming to see focused upon someone other than herself for a change. "Draco, what's she talking about?"

Draco wouldn't budge. He even went so far as to sink further into his slouch on the couch, folding his arms across his chest. So, naturally, Tali couldn't help herself. "Nothing particular, 'Arry. Draco and I were just talking earlier of Andre. You remember Andre, from school?"

The groan of exasperation that Harry uttered, closing his eyes and letting his head fall onto the back of the sofa, made Tali laugh out loud. So she was a bit of a sadist when it came to tormenting her friends. So what?

"Tali, really? Did you have to?" Tali shrugged, grinning as he opened one eye and glared at her. He turned to Draco. "What did she tell you?"

"Not much, only ze bare minimum, I assure you," Tali replied before Draco could with a sing-song lilt to her tone.

Both boys turned their glares back upon her. "Must you, Nataliha?"

"I simply must, Draco," Tali beamed. "You know it is ze only way I can achieve my daily quota of amusement."

"Amusement? Is that how you see it?" Harry muttered, folding his arms. Tali might even have felt guilty at annoying her friend if his expression wasn't more frustrated resignation than truly angry.

"Of course. What else would it be for?"

"I don't know, maybe you're compensating for something?" Draco's lip curled in more of a snarl than a smile. Unlike Harry, his own anger was evidently not losing a competition against the inevitable acceptance.

"Draco," Harry warned.

"No, I'm serious. Are your own attempts at confessing your feelings to the one you care about failing so dismally that you have to take it out on everyone else's relationships?"

It was a low blow. Tali even felt herself physically flinch from the words, as though struck. Draco didn't look the slightest bit ashamed of his dig, even with Harry's reprimanding glare turned upon him. And to be honest, Tali couldn't really blame him.

_Maybe I was pushing them a little too far._

Still, acknowledgement of her own wrongdoing did nothing to lessen the sting of Draco's words. That they _were_ truthful. And that maybe she was compensating for something.

Thankfully, at that moment, the click of the front door opening and the stomp of feet signalled the arrival of Sirius and Anouk. And if that wasn't indication of their presence enough, the bellow of "I… have… PIZZA!" certainly was.

Tali latched onto the distraction as though it were a rescue buoy thrown to a drowning sailor. Pushing herself up from her seat and hastening past Harry and Draco – who had fallen into a hushed and rapid exchange that she chose not to hear – she headed towards the door.

At her appearance in the hallway, Anouk, slipping her shoes off at the side of the door, exclaimed in joy. Her rapid-fire French was a welcome comfort to the sickly feeling that had settled into Tali's gut. "Tali! How wonderful to see you! I didn't know you were visiting for dinner."

Approaching her, Tali pasted a smile on her face and leant in to air-kiss her cheeks. "Hi, Anouk. It's been a while. Did you get a hair cut?"

"Yes, yes, I did! Do you like it?" Running her hand through her bronze curls, Anouk tossed her head in an exaggerated impression of a hair model. Tali laughed. It was easier to do so than she'd anticipated it would be.

"It looks wonderful, sweetie," Sirius assured her, slipping one arm around her waist as he thrust the stack of pizza boxes towards Tali. Anouk grinned widely, indulgently, and pressed a kiss on Sirius' clean-shaven cheek. They shared a nuzzling exchange that was heartily sickening to behold, sickly sweet in a similar yet strikingly different way to what Draco and Harry had.

"Please, Sirius, would you mind? We are just about to eat," Tali sighed long-sufferingly. Falling into the familiar taunting of Harry's godfather helped to alleviate some of the ache induced by Draco's words.

"Yes, I feel I really must," Sirius replied, pressing another kiss onto Anouk's neck. "My house, my rules. You don't like them, get out."

"And I suppose zat if 'Arry and Draco were doing exactly ze same zing you'd be completely fine wiz it?" Tali dangled the bait like a well-practiced fisherman.

Sirius snapped it up without a second thought, turning a scowl upon Tali that eradicated any remaining scraps of the lovey-dovey atmosphere. Anouk shared a smile with Tali, but retained her own one-armed embrace of her fiancé's waist. "I said it was _my_ rules, and one of those rules is –"

"Yes, yes, we all know your rules, Sirius," Tali overrode him, jutting out a hip in a casual slouch and sighing with exaggerated resignation. "I was zere when you made us all learn zem by rote, remember?"

"Damn right you were."

Tali turned back towards the inner house to the sound of Anouk's laughter and affectionate scolding of "I cannot believe you actually made zem do zat". Taking a step into the living area, she opened her mouth to repeat the announcement of dinner's arrival when –

She stopped, frozen.

And immediately backpedalled into the hallway.

Throwing her back against the hallway wall around the corner, it was only luck and a distracted grasp that kept her from dropping the stack of pizzas. Her mouth hung open in what must have been a comical rendition of shock and her breath was caught in her throat.

_What… was that?_

"Tali, what is wrong?"

Turning slowly at the sound of Anouk's voice, Tali struggled to push words from her mouth. Only a faint strangle was emitted. Sirius, walking behind Anouk, frowned and sidled around where his fiancée had paused in her step alongside Tali. An expression of worry hardened his features and he strode towards the living room.

"What is it? Is something –?"

Somehow still managing to balance the pizzas, Tali hastened towards Sirius, waving her hands at him to pause his forward progress and silencing him with frantic hisses. He skidded to a stop at her behest, and she took the opportunity to return the burden of the pizzas to his hands. A moment later she was back at the end of the hallway, her head poking just slightly around the corner into the living room to peer at her friends. Muffled footsteps and hushed breaths announced that Sirius and Anouk had crept up behind her.

It was like the scene from a movie. Harry, still seated on the couch, gazed down at Draco with an expression of incredulity as his boyfriend knelt before him on one knee. Draco clasped both of Harry's hands in his own, gently but firmly, and the returning gaze he cast upward was beatific. All traces of affront at his argument with Tali had disappeared, his attention solely captured by Harry.

They were quiet for a moment, and Tali was certain that Sirius would break that silence himself, except that a moment later Harry spoke.

"But… I thought, with your mother…"

Draco shook his head, his smile widening. "Maybe once, but I haven't wanted to do it with her for a long time. Ever since you gave me the tapestry, I think I've felt that it would just fit you better."

"But… no, does Narcissa know?"

Chuckling under his breath, Draco nodded. His expression became sheepish. "I talked about it with her, actually, and let it slip that I originally intended it to be with her and father." He smirked self-deprecatingly, an unusual expression for his face. "It's the first time in a long time she's cuffed me over the back of the head, and this time it actually hurt. She said if I didn't ask you instead then she'd disown me."

Harry let out a feeble huff of laughter, but it was still more incredulous than amused. "I can't believe you're…" He trailed off with a shake of his head.

"Harry." Draco's voice lost all light-heartedness and deepened to a solemnity that caused a shiver to run down Tali's spine. She was so absorbed that when Sirius leant on he back, an elbow propping on her head to better peer around the corner, she barely even noticed.

"Since I met you, I've been admittedly captivated. It took me a while to actually realise it, and a while for it to grow into the single-minded adoration I have now." The self-deprecating smile appeared again only briefly before dying. "But I can say with absolute certainty that I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

" _Oh my God_ ," Anouk whisper-shouted beside Tali. Her manicured fingers abruptly grabbed Tali's arm in a death grip. " _He's going to…"_

Tali didn't pay her an ounce of notice. She felt as though her heart were swelling in her chest and an unexpected flood of emotion brought tears to her eyes. From the looks of it Harry was drifting along the same lines; shiny eyed, biting his lip and grasping Draco's hands as firmly as his own were held.

"I know we haven't discussed this, and as such I think you have complete right to turn me down –"

 _Like that's ever going to happen,_ Tali thought with a mental roll of her eyes.

"- but I've been meaning to ask you for a while now. I just couldn't find the perfect moment." A loving smile spread across Draco's face that was returned with wavering tremor of Harry's lips. "Harry. Will you bond me for eternity?"

Oh. _Oh_.

Tali felt a choked sob pass her lips before she could clamp a hand over them. She'd thought – as likely Anouk had – that Draco was proposing, but… no, she'd heard the story of the Bond of Eternity. From Draco, as he recited the tail of the first genuine ancient artefact he'd gotten that wasn't either a good copy or of negligible significance. She'd heard how Harry had described Draco's desire to bond with his family in "the ultimate form of love:. It had sounded a little strange to Tali at the time – why would Draco forge a bond of love with anyone _but_ Harry, even if it were with his family? – but hadn't questioned it.

But now –

"What's this about you bonding my kitten?!"

Sirius shattered the heart-felt lull with his affronted exclamation, striding into the living room with pizza boxes held aloft. A flurry of activity ensued, and Tali could only follow in Sirius' wake, Anouk still clinging to her arm. Draco rose to his feet, rolled his eyes and began a long explanation of exactly what he had asked.

Disentangling herself from Anouk, Tali moved towards Harry. An incredibly wide smile had settled upon his face but tears still glistened, sparkling in his eyes. Without a word, only a short, incredulous shaking of her head, Tali stepped towards her friend and wrapped him in a hug.

The rest of the night proceeded in a raucous exchange of protestations from Sirius and disregards from Draco, steaming pizza and flowing wine that Anouk cracked open as celebration for… well, not an engagement, but to what Tali felt was at least just as momentous. More, even, for she knew the gravity of the bond itself. A gravity that impressed itself upon Sirius as Draco gradually explained what he had asked of Harry.

Sirius blustered, of course. He declared that they were too young, that it was not going to happen, not to his godson. When Draco only hooded his eyelids and raised his chin, uttering a chilling "that's not your decision to make" Sirius had become desperate.

He turned to Harry. "Ah, but you haven't even said yes, have you, Harry? You haven't agreed?" Sirius looked faintly pleading, desperate even.

Harry blinked at his godfather, silenced for a moment, before turning to share a glance with Draco. Tali was sure it wasn't her imagination that a brief flicker of uncertainty skittered across Draco's face, but he hid it well. Any trace of anxiety faded completely when a moment later Harry shifted his attention back to Sirius. "Of course I'm saying yes."

The howl of mourning that Sirius had emitted had everyone else in the room breaking into fits of laughter.

It was late by the time Tali decided to take her leave. Nearly midnight, but despite the late hour and the alcohol swimming through her veins, giving her a light buzz in her head just behind her eyes, she shrugged off Harry's suggestions to stay the night as he and Draco were. An exchange of kisses, of pointed looks at Draco before finally offering a reluctant hug, and Tali stumbled through the Floo into her own home.

The house was silent, expected given that her parents rarely stayed up past eleven o'clock these days. The darkness of the living room was broken only by the even darker shadows of furniture, of couches and a low coffee table propped at just the right height to offer a painful knock to her shins when Tali stumbled into it. She cursed under her breath and, fumbling for a handhold, made her way to her room. It was made markedly easier by the assistance of the banister when she reached the stairs.

Falling into her room with a stumble through the doorway, Tali tripped over scattered shoes, her backpack and discarded clothes to face-plant onto her bed. The thick duvet was soft and cool beneath her flushed cheek and she closed her eyes with a sigh. A sigh that naturally slipped into a smile as she considered the evening.

Harry was getting bonded. And not just any bond but an Eternity Bond. It was huge – _huge_ – possibly even more extravagant than a wedding at their age. High school sweethearts indeed.

They were perfect for each other, Harry and Draco, in a way that two people who were so different fit together so naturally. For they were different, two contrasting colours of yellow and blue that somehow, over time, had morphed into a spectacular shade of green as the two had slowly become one. It was a relationship that anyone would be envious of, and few enough people in the world had a chance to witness, let alone experience for themselves.

The swell of excitement for her friend gradually dimmed as Tali felt her mood mellow. Envy ran strongly in those that surrounded them, rarely maliciously but always longingly. Tali had seen it, in the few friends at Beauxbatons who had witnessed Harry and Draco together as an audience to a love story. She'd seen it in Hermione and Ron, in Neville and Ginny, for even with their own relationships, there had been envy for what their two friends shared. They never said anything, but there was that faint wistfulness in their gazes as they beheld Harry turn one of his brilliant smiles, the smiles reserved only for Draco, onto his partner and watched Draco glow beneath them. Yet though they may remain silent, though envy was exhibited by each, they all appeared to have contented themselves with what they had.

Blaise expressed his own degree of envy, though in an entirely different way. There was none of the silent longing, the thoughtful wistfulness. Blaise spouted loud and clear that it was sickeningly sweet to bare witness to, enough to give him a tooth-ache, and he wanted nothing more than to have something that _they_ had.

Just like Tali did.

Draco's words from earlier that evening resurfaced as she'd known they would. In her wine-addled brain, they sounded accusing. Not that Draco had been accusing, exactly – he had struck her a low blow in retaliation for her own – but Tali felt the force of his words strongly enough anyway. And not in Draco's voice, either, but in the whisper in her mind of " _he's right"_.

Draco _was_ right. Tali had been dancing around her own love life like a curious wolf cub skirting a porcupine, inquisitive and enraptured, daring to reach forward but _knowing_ that the second she did she would be assaulted with sharp barbs that would drive deep and take long to heal. She knew Harry – and Draco, of course – were aware of her feelings. Harry was a well of sympathy and support, an listening ear but not quite understanding, while Draco was more favourable of encouraging a proactive response. He was the one who had realised Tali was in love with Vivi in the first place.

She didn't know when it had first started, when she had realised it. It seemed like a slowly approaching storm cloud, thick and pervasive and distractedly acknowledged just on the horizon until suddenly it was there, it was everywhere, and it was splattering her with insistent raindrops and drowning her in overwhelming confusion. Tali might have been able to brush it off as a passing fancy, triggered by her desire to have something even a shadow of what Harry and Draco shared, except that it wasn't. And her feelings had lasted for far too long to be anything but real. Maybe seeing Harry and Draco, two people that fit together so perfectly, that were _made_ for each other, had simply enticed her to realise the full depth of her own feelings for her childhood friend?

Tali and Vivi had been friends for as long as she could remember. There hadn't been a time where they hadn't been friends – even when at odds, even when fighting over something later recognised as stupid and trivial, they were always there for one another. Vivi had lived down the street for most of their shared lives, barely a block away and less then two minutes run when one of them was in desperate need of companionship.

Until she wasn't there anymore.

Vivi left Beauxbatons just before Harry came. In leaving, she had erected a gaping hole in Tali's life that would have torn her down, she was sure, except that at least to some degree Harry had filled it. Not perfectly, for nothing could truly replace Vivi, but enough to hold her together like a Band-Aid while Tali recovered from her abrupt loss by herself.

Choosing instead to dive straight into the workforce, Vivi moved to Spain. She was not an academic person, but that didn't mean she wasn't smart. Vivi was good with her hands, a vision with magical creatures, which surpassed the theoretical of academic studies. She hadn't quite fit at Beauxbatons, and Tali had known it from the year they'd started. It was no wonder that when a distant cousin offered her the opportunity to launch herself straight into the passion she loved rather than wading arduously through the swamp of studies and rudimentary practicals that she would leap at the chance.

Tali had missed her. Missed her sorely, to a degree that, even though she knew Harry was aware that something was not quite right, she could never talk about. She knew Harry didn't miss her exchanges with her best friend either; Tali sent and received letters with Vivi at a frequency on par with those exchanged between Harry and Draco in their fifth year. Each word, each playful comment and heartfelt "I miss you, wish you were here" threatened to make Tali drop her own plans for finishing school and race a country away to join her friend.

She hadn't. She'd stayed, and survived on the infrequent catch-ups and inadequate letters.

It was a word from Draco that had knocked her world off its axis. An offhand phrase of "It's obvious that you love her" and Tali had been dumbfounded. Because he was right. And how had Tali not realised it before?

She loved Vivi, in a deeper, more profound way than the sisterly companionship of childhood friends. She loved everything about her, from her flaws to her perfections, her quiet presence and her multitude of loud, colourful braids. Her quiet reassurances and the way she always knew exactly what to say when Tali was feeling down. Her annoying tendency to blatantly ignore Tali when she was being openly petulant, or how when she cradled her golden snidget she looked like a mother crooning over her baby.

Tali had heard Harry describe it before, how he could even love the things he hated about Draco because it was Draco who held such flaws. She didn't fully understand it until she realised that she felt exactly same way about Vivi.

It had been eating away at her, the looming cloud like an ominous force that gradually blocked all other thoughts from her mind. And it was driving her crazy, and not only because she couldn't think of anything else. Tali had barely written but in brief words to Vivi since her revelation. She couldn't help it – she was scared that somehow Vivi would know, would see what she was hiding and…

Shun her? Turn away from her? Express horror that Tali had shifted her perception of their relationship in such a way that she could no longer see it as the light-hearted and enduring compassion of best friends?

Or just as bad, what if she brushed it off as a passing fancy? What if Vivi completely overlooked her feelings, failed to realise the depth they held? It wasn't like Vivi, and logically Tali knew that her friend would never toss her feelings around so carelessly. But she couldn't help it. The fear was still there, and it wouldn't lift.

It was the only reason that Tali still hesitated upon taking the position with the ILPP. Because Vivi, beautiful, blessed, incredibly wonderful Vivi, would be working for them too. And Tali wasn't sure if she could handle that, could run the risk of exposing herself and it all falling to the pits.

_Are your own attempts at confessing your feelings failing so dismally…?_

Draco's words rang through her mind. Confessing her feelings… if faced with Vivi head on, Tali didn't think she would have the courage to admit she loved her. It was too terrifying, there were too many possibilities of everything going wrong, becoming irreparably damaged.

But then… she couldn't leave things as they were. She knew it suddenly, lying on her bed and considering, and understanding impressed itself. Perhaps it was the assumed clarity that came with drunkenness, of perhaps such drunkenness had finally given her the push she needed, but for whatever reason, with a groan Tali pushed herself up from her near comatose state and staggered to her desk across the room. Fumbling in her pocket, she cast a mumbled _"Lumos"_ and fell heavily into the wooden seat.

The desk was strewn with discarded papers, books, a hairbrush, and lumps of charcoal used for sketching when Tali felt herself in a particularly artistic mood. She swept it all aside, reached into the top draw of the desk and withdrawing a fresh sheet of parchment. Picking up a pen from the table – Harry had long since converted her to their use and she had to admit it was a lot easier that juggling a quill and ink – she bent over her desk, poised her hand, and paused.

How did one even start a love letter? Or a confessionary letter, more appropriately. _Hello, how are you, just wanted to let you know that I've realised I'm in love with you?_ Or did she start with something more casual, asking how Vivi has been, apologising for not writing more frequently and gradually revealing the true purpose of her letter?

Tali honestly didn't know. Each approach seemed inadequate somehow. As though it wouldn't do the situation justice. So instead, she took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut briefly, and let her hand write for itself.

_Dear Vivi,_

_I'm sorry I haven't really written properly to you in a while. There's been something on my mind, and I think it's about time that I tell you…_

* * *

With a stumble, Harry fell through the fireplace from the Malfoy's parlour and into the Jarvour household. A puff of soot tickled his nose, but he didn't even spare a moment to pause and sneeze, instead hastening through the quaint living room and into the hallway in a blind flurry.

Tali's holwer had been almost hysterical and entirely uninformative, to the point that Harry wasn't sure if the end of the world had finally come or if her long-held dream for adopting a Kelpie as a pet had been fulfilled. It was sometimes hard to tell with Tali and her usually quiet voice shattered into frantic babbling hadn't made it any easier to discern. Overall, he was left only with an incredible sense of urgency and the understanding that "You must get your arse here right now!"

Which led to him tumbling unceremoniously into the living room of number one-eight-one _Rue Dumaresq_.

Racing down the hallway and to the stairs, Harry skidded to a stop as he passed the dining room and a rather sleepy-eyed Mrs Jarvour. She was still dressed in a nightrobe and slippers, stirring her morning porridge with one hand while her other raised a mug of coffee to her lips. At the sight of him, she lowered the mug and gave him an amused smile.

Which did wonders to still his jumping nerves, his rising concern. If Tali's mother wasn't worried, nothing too bad could have happened. Right?

Gesturing with her coffee overhead in the general direction of 'upstairs', Mrs Jarvour's smile spread into a grin. She looked very reminiscent of her daughter when she smiled like that, down to the tweaking scrunch of her nose. "She's all yours, 'Arry."

Opening his mouth to reply, and finding he had nothing to say, Harry raised a dubious eyebrow. Mrs Jarvour only shook her head fondly. "Off you go."

With only a brief pause further, Harry started towards Tali's room once more, albeit at a more subdued pace this time. He'd been in the Jarvour house at least half a dozen times throughout his friendship with Tali and knew the way well enough. It was hardly a large house, despite the modestly wealthy status of the family. A simply two-storey abode, just large enough for Tali, her parents, and the sporadic residency of her brother when he chose to drop by.

Padding quietly down the carpeted hallway towards Tali's room, he stopped just outside and pressed a hand to the closed door. Knocking quietly – the household appeared to be largely asleep still and he didn't want to wake anyone – he murmured a hushed, "Tali?"

There was a faint scramble, the sound of thumping feet and the door swung inwards. Tali stood before him, framed by the doorway in a frazzled mess. Her auburn curls were tangled like they always were when she just woke up, her pyjamas were askew and her eyes were red and puffy as though she had been crying. Harry's suspicion was enhanced by her rapid succession of sniffs.

Except that Tali was smiling. Smiling in sheer joy, wonder, disbelief.

Before Harry could say anything, she let out a choked burst of laughter. "'Arry she –" Tali swiped the heel of her palm across her reddened cheek, "she loves me too, 'Arry."

It took barely a moment for the words to register. Harry's eyes widened and he gasped through his own spreading smile. "You mean -?"

Tali nodded vigorously. It seemed impossible for her own smile to broaden further, yet somehow it did. "Vivi loves me, 'Arry. She _loves me too_."

When Tali threw herself into Harry's arms, he only just managed to catch her in time for them to tumble to the floor in a heap in the middle of the hallway. Sobs of laughter and tears of happiness were muffled by his shoulder, shaking him with their intensity, but Harry didn't complain. He just held his friend as she squeezed him in sheer and untethered joy.


	15. Bound For Eternity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So... this is the LAST CHAPTER! Sorry if that disappoints anyone. I probably could have explored the story more, but I felt there's no point in whipping a flagging horse, right? For anyone who's interested, however, I have a SEQUEL/epilogue/oneshot thingo title "Through Onlooking Eyes" if anyone is interested. Just a sort of fluffy piece to give yours truly some closure :p
> 
> As a WARNING this chapter contains depictions of a sexual nature, as well as profuse fluff, symbolism and potioneering. Tread with caution.
> 
> But otherwise, enjoy! Thank you so much everyone for reading! I hope you liked my story as much as I did writing it. Please leave a comment if you have the chance. I love to hear from you. Thanks!

The night of June the twenty-eighth was settled and warm. Not a faint breeze stirred the stillness, nor a cloud streaked the sky to mask the brilliant luminescence of the full moon.

Stepping down the stairs of the back patio, Draco cast a glance over his shoulder at Harry. His partner followed at barely a pace behind him and, noticing Draco's glance, offered him a subdued smile. He was nervous – maybe even as nervous as Draco. Holding out his wandless hand, Harry readily latched onto Draco's proffered fingers and allowed himself to be tugged across the open, shorn grass of the back gardens. Or the acreage, more correctly, but who was splitting hairs? The crystal cauldron, caked in ice at the base and emitting a thin, veil-like smoke of dissipating dry ice smoke into the night air, hovered behind and above them at Draco's direction.

Behind them, Draco could feel the gaze of his mother and Severus as they watched them depart, could almost feel their apprehension. They wouldn't follow, however. They'd promised.

It was the perfect conditions for the ritual, so perfect that Draco would even venture to suggest _too_ perfect. He was a sceptic when it came to deities and divine forces, but it seemed almost like fate that, on the night they had chosen, possibly the most important night of Draco and Harry's lives, everything simply _fit_.

It had been a long and complex build to the final product of the potion used to build the Eternity bond. Long not so much in duration – it had taken only a week to prepare – but in sheer requisite for attention. Draco had hardly slept a wink in the last seven days. Harry was a little better only because Draco had been so paranoid about something going wrong with the potion that he had hardly been able to blink away from the potion, even when Harry took over monitoring its progress. It was a finicky brew, requiring short, sharp bursts of heat to rapidly bring to the boil and dissolve the ground ingredients – moonstone was unreactive under less than thirty-degree heats – and to fumigate the viscous semi-liquids – as Moke paste congealed to a hard crystal if allowed to cool before completely mixing. But more infuriatingly, the presence of Ashwinder eggs added as one of the first steps became denatured and rendered useless if exposed to temperatures above zero for more than twenty minute bouts.

That was to say nothing of the near constant stirring, and in an intricate pattern at that. Not for the first time Draco speculated as to the sheer complexity – a complexity that seemed to refute any eagerness to forge what was historically the 'strongest bond of love' in existence – of the potion. Surely if the original brewers were altruistic and favoured their future descendants enough, wanted them to be happy and _successful_ , they wouldn't have configured a procedure quite so tailored towards failure? Draco could only be incredibly thankful that Severus – though not involved in the actual brewing – had embedded the finer points of potion-making into him from such a young age.

Shaking his head at the thought, Draco peered ahead through the monochromatic light of the grounds in search of their site of ritual. It had to be at a pure water source, the instructions explicitly stated, and that source had to be bathed in magic to enhance that purity. The spring that was little more than an oversized puddle at the far end of the Malfoy estate would serve perfectly. It was just another element that lessened Draco scepticism in godly input; what were the odds of the perfect context, the perfect site, existing right in his backyard?

As they neared the spring, Draco cast another glance towards Harry. They had been silent the whole trip, a silence brought on by a combination of nervousness, weariness, and an innate urge to maintain a respectful hush. Harry offered him another smile – he must have already been looking at Draco to respond so quickly – and without a word released his grasp on Draco's hand and carefully reached for the pale cauldron to lift it from the air. Draco had to bite back the urge to step forward and assist the manoeuvre. Not that he didn't trust Harry to be able to lift one of the smallest cauldrons he owned, but he was just _so worried_ that something would happen.

Harry didn't drop the cauldron. He appeared just as tense as Draco for fear of dropping their brew, and moved with the measured, slow steps of one desperate 'not to break anything'. Silently stepping towards the spring, he lowered the cauldron into the shallow water. Draco didn't hear a word, but from the near complete stillness and stability of its float he assumed that Harry must have cast a Motionless Charm upon it. It didn't drift even an inch from the spot he'd placed it.

With a faintly ragged sigh, Harry sunk down onto his knees beside the spring, his shoulders lowering in a deliberate release of tension. Pausing in his step to his partner's side, Draco took a moment to appreciate the sight Harry made. Clad all in white, in a loose, long-sleeved silk robe, the twin of the one Draco wore, he seemed to glow in the luminescence of the moon. With his hair untied and falling across his shoulders, his head tilted slightly forward and eyes downcast, he looked like a mage of old, sinking into the meditation the preceded a ritual. Which, Draco considered distractedly, he sort of was.

It was a beautiful sight.

Drawing a deep breath, Draco strode the last few steps to the edge of the spring and similarly lowered himself to his knees. Glancing at Harry sideways, he opened his mouth to finally break the lulling silence. "Do you have the…?"

Without a word of reply, Harry shifted slightly and unhooked the small leather pouch from the back of his belt-loop. He reached inside and withdrew first a long, thin feather, then a plain hemp pouch that Draco knew contained their requisite herbs, the mouth knotted by twine. He passed the feather to Draco.

 _The contour feather of a living dove, unbroken and whole._ Draco brought the feather up to his eyes and cast a quick scan over its length, checking for what could have been the thousandth time for the slightest imperfection.

"It's fine, Draco," Harry murmured, his voice faintly chiding yet still soothing. Draco spared him a half smile but couldn't push through his nerves to make a snarky remark, to divert his apparently obvious jitteriness. With a deep breath, he leant forward and dropped the feather into the cauldron. For a moment nothing happened, then the swirling, mercurial substance seemed to rise, swell, and embrace the feather like a siren wrapping thick arms around a drowning sailor. Not a trace was left on the surface that stilled almost instantly.

Holding out his hand mutely, Draco accepted the little herb pouch. A glance at his partner showed that, as always, Harry was moving in tandem with him if not a step ahead. Glowing on the back of his wrist like a Muggle digital watch, he peered at the figures of the _Tempus_ Charm, idly flicking his fringe out of his eyes.

"Tell me when," Draco murmured unnecessarily. Harry didn't mock him for the statement – of course he didn't, Harry never would – and simply nodded in acknowledgement.

The seconds seemed to tick past with incremental slowness. It was a struggle for Draco to refrain from fidgeting in his folded _seiza_ position, but he managed. Instead he focused on tugging at the knot of twine. It fell away loosely to his fingers.

"Eleven thirty-seven," Harry whispered, his voice barely audible. "Thirty seconds."

Nodding, Draco counted down in his head, his hand already rising to poise over the cauldron. From hereon in, time was of the essence. Spare a moment in tripping over a phrase, or too long in pouring the final ground ingredients into the mix, and the potion was just as likely to fizzle and spurt, rendered impotent, as fulfil their desires. He took a deep breath.

"Three… two… one…"

With a tilt of his hand, Draco began to pour the fragrant mix into the swirling cauldron with the precise consistency of a trickling hourglass. The granulated herbs felt smooth against his fingers, like powdered sugar as they fell. Almost without his direction, his mouth opened and he began to speak the words of the _Merlecue_ language, twisted and unfamiliar on his tongue, which he'd drilled into his memory. In his mind, the translation chanted along with him, even as his magic rose to curl from his tongue alongside the resonant syllables.

 _"_ _Breath of my Arbovitae, my friend through trial and hardship, to stand strong beside me through rain, through hail, through shine."_

As if in response, a wafting scent of woodiness, an evergreen tang, puffed from the cauldron in a brief thickening of gossamer mist. Draco poured.

 _"_ _Drink deep of my Honeysuckle, witness my devotion and faith, the depth of my affection."_

In a shimmer of iridescent pink that faded to white, the potion spun in a single, rapid swirl before slowing once more. The scatter of pouring herbs dotted the stilled surface.

 _"_ _Behold my Lily of the Valley, my tenderness, my faith, my trust; to revel in the tender bells of happiness."_

It could have been his imagination, but Draco felt certain that he hear the faintest, pale chiming of minute bells, chirping like newborn chicks.

 _"_ _Taste of my Ambrosia, the sweetmeat of the Gods, and share in a feast of reciprocation."_

His own words were lulling, deceptive; Draco felt sure that a honey-like flavour glossed his tongue in a thin coating of sweetness, the magic springing to life in response to his summons. His fingers speckled the last of the herbs over the cauldron.

 _"_ _Feel my Amaranth, the immortality of my love, an everlasting devotion, an eternity."_

Blessedly, the moment the last word fell from his lips the final grains of powdered flora tumbled into the cauldron. As it should have been, synching perfectly, but he hadn't been certain it _would._ Draco breathed a sigh and shared a glance with Harry. Harry who, in a recognisably admirable feat of procedural finesses, barely spared him a moment to meet his glance before seeming to conjure from nowhere a needle-thin knife balanced delicately between index finger and thumb.

Turning over his left hand, Draco remained immobile as Harry leant forwards and pricked his ring finger, a faint and barely perceivable stab that brought an upwelling of blood to pool on his skin. A mythological fallacy, to be sure, but the belief in the sole, direct connection of the finger to the heart held weight, even in modern times when anatomical studies disproved it.

Reaching across the cauldron, Draco suspended his hand until three slow, deliberate drops tumbled into the glittering potion. Almost too swift to see, the colour darkened to a deep, rich crimson.

Holding out his right hand, Draco took the knife from Harry and repeated the process with Harry's own left hand. His slender, pale fingers contrasted starkly to the almost-black blood, and when Harry reached forwards to drop his own blood into the cauldron it seemed to roil and glisten and glow more vibrantly before darkening to a red so deep it too appeared almost black. For a split second Draco was captivated.

"Draco."

A hand on his wrist drew his attention. From the little leather pouch at his waist, Harry had dutifully drawn a long strip of satin ribbon and held it aloft between them. Shaking himself into action – maybe he was more tired than he'd thought – Draco held out his right hand. Harry raised his left beside it and, with another unspoken command of Harry's magic, the shimmering strip of material wove itself intricately around their wrists, tugging in a demanding pull that encouraged an overlap and the linking of fingers. It tied itself into a neat knot above their aligned thumbs.

Sparing a glance for Harry once more, meeting his wide eyes of darkly dilated pupils, Draco nodded. "You ready?"

In reply, Harry reached into the leather pouch and extracted the final item with a _snick_ of stone on fingernails. The chalcedony chalice, as white as the crystal of the cauldron cradling its deep red brew, was simple and unadorned, a shallow cup and unremarkable stem. Draco didn't cared; it had been hard enough to find one of adequate purity for him to complain of a lack in elaborate decoration.

Without comment, Harry leant forwards and scooped a full cup of the liquid into the concave stone. It swirled an ominous shade about the rim of the cup.

As soon as Harry drew the chalice to his chin, Draco began to speak, his tongue weaving through the _Merlecue_ vowels as practiced more times than he could count. As he spoke, Harry tilted his head back and slowly downed the potion.

 _"_ _Friendship and companionship, kindness and tenderness. Faithfulness and loyalty, support and trust. Eternal devotion and undying love. I pledge myself bound."_

Harry slowly lowered the chalice at his final word and swallowed the last mouthful. His lips were stained darkly red, yet barely perceivable in the black and white hues that bathed their scene. Offering the chalice to Draco, Harry nodded and afforded him his small smile. A slight, nonchalant shrug accompanied the deliberate placement of the chalcedony stem into Draco's unbound hand.

_Not so bad._

Draco almost laughed at the words that nearly verbalised themselves from the gesture. It was a nervous response, his body thrumming with weary tension, but the thought eased him nonetheless. Apparently the potion wasn't as unpalatable as he'd feared.

Scooping up his own cupful of the potion, Draco paused to synchronise his first swallow with Harry's words.

 _"_ _Friendship and companionship…_ "

It tasted… like the best potion Draco had ever tasted. The medicinal and magical brews of the Wizarding world were notoriously sickening; more often than not it was a hefty decision to consider taking a prescribed potion because it simply tasted _so bad_.

Not this one. Perhaps there was something to be said for the complexity of the procedure, the incremental steps and absolute precision of the ingredient's additions. Maybe the original brewers were more concerned with the welfare of their taste buds than future brewers were capable of and deliberately configured the potion to make it taste good. Or perhaps it was simply because of what it was; who truly expected unconditional love to taste unpleasant?

There was a hint of the cinnamon enhanced by a clear, sweet coolness as the liquid passed over Draco's tongue. A citrusy overlay followed quickly, accompanied by a flooding warmth that seemed to rush beneath Draco's skin like a burst of adrenaline. More than that, it was actually _easy_ to swallow, which made it a better even than Severus' Calming Draughts.

Lowering the chalice at Harry's final words, Draco immediately placed it to the side and tightened his hold on their joined hands. It was nearly done. Nearly there, only one more…

In perfect synchrony, just as they had practiced, Draco and Harry began to speak. _"With you I forge this bond, through sickness and health, through pain and fear, through joys and delights. For all my life and eternity beyond. So we are bound."_

Then everything went white.

The silence erupted in a chorus of joyful cries.

Draco wasn't sure if it was a product of magic only. The gloriously pure and captivating whiteness, the melody of voices, could have been real or ethereal, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that the faint warmth that had rippled through him upon swallowing the potion magnified tenfold, thrumming through his limbs and rippling over his skin, raising hairs to stand to attention at the caress of a magical embrace. Warm, a warmth that should have been too warm but simply _wasn't_ , shrouded him and engulfed him in a blanket of comfort and softness, in kindness, in the very embodiment of love. It hardly mattered that the piercing brightness blinded his eyes. He didn't need so see, because he felt.

And in that moment, Draco knew. He felt. He felt _Him_.

It was the shadow of fingers laid atop his own, perfectly aligned so that their hands appeared as one. It was the memory of the warmth of his body pressed against Draco's chest, crushed against him to eradicate every breath, every whisper of space, between them. It was the steady thud of a heartbeat, a constant and hollow _thu-thump_ that Draco had never realised was the most wondrous sound in the world.

It was what he _felt_.

An echo, an echo of Draco's own thoughts, of his feelings, of the indescribable emotions that flooded him whenever he turned upon Him. That wonder, that sheer joy, had never faltered, not once, and far be it from mellowing, from settling with time, Draco's adoration only seemed to grow stronger with each passing second.

It was an echo, and yet it resounded in a tune of its own. That same, familiar, overwhelming tide of _affection, amusement, delight, exasperation, adoration… Love_ … All a mirror of Draco's and yet flavoured with a shine that was entirely foreign.

Entirely different, yet addictive to behold. And Draco… Draco would _always_ have that.

The blinding light faded from his eyes, but the warmth remained. The absence of night-blindness as Draco blinked rapidly around himself told him that their surroundings had not been illuminated, that the glorious light had been magical, had been impressed into his very eyes rather than the world at large.

His eyes, that turned towards Him, and suddenly he could breathe. He saw _Him._

Harry gazed upon him with an expression that embodied exactly what he was feeling. Exactly what Draco was feeling as well. Their emotions coiled in tandem, kindred spirits in shape and origin. He knew this, he _knew_ because…

"I can _feel_ you."

Draco's voice was awed, a whisper, and without thought he reached his unbound hand – though somewhere his other too had become unbound, the tie fizzling with the spell – towards Harry and interlocked their empty fingers. He felt like he would never, _ever_ let go.

Harry's eyes met his own, and within them roared a torrent of emotion, a cascade of feelings. Emotions that Draco could _feel,_ even if they weren't his own. Harry's reply was as breathless as Draco's had been. "I… you _love_ me…"

Awe. It was awe-inspiring. There was awe in Harry's voice, just as there was coursing through Draco's veins. For what could be more exhilarating than to know, to _feel_ with absolute certainty, that the only person in the world that truly existed for him could see nothing but him in return?

* * *

It was a race. A race with no loser, because regardless of who came first they both won.

Harry wasn't sure which of them moved first, which set of arms locked around the other faster, but it hardly mattered. He could barely spare the consideration thought. All that was truly of import was being _with Draco,_ of _feeling_ him physically as he did the dancing song of emotions that wove through his mind, which resonated with him so strong that he could nearly mistake them for his own.

Their lips crashed together with little elegance and all passion. Harry curled his arms around Draco's neck, drawing him as close as two bodies could be, just as Draco wrapped his own arms around Harry's waist and tugged him tightly against him with an identical urgency. It still wasn't close enough, but…

Gasping between smattering kisses, between the nip of teeth into lips, through the coil of tongues and the frantic press of their mouths together, Harry drank in the very essence of what was Draco. His warmth, his softness, the tensing ripple of muscles as he shifted to hold Harry tighter, the tightness of his neck as he strained to push further into him. It was heady, intoxicating; there wasn't enough contact, while at the same time every inch of their bodies that touched flared with an intense heat that should have burned but rather sizzled them in a delightful burn of sensitive skin.

But most of all… best of all… was the desire, the need, the want that rushed through Harry that he could have mistaken as his own except that it came from _Draco_. And coursing through it all, overwhelming even the ferocity of passion and lust, was a deep, pervasive and unerring love.

Love. A reciprocated union of unconditional dedication.

Harry hadn't truly understood just what it meant to love, to be loved, until he greeted the other half. And with that knowledge came absolute certainty: _I will never let this go._

Breaking from the throughs of a passionate kiss, gasping in ragged pants, Harry fluttered open eyes he hadn't realised had fallen closed. Chest heaving, rising and falling in parallel inhalations with Draco's pressed against him, he rested his forehead against his bond-partner's. "Draco, I…"

Draco's forehead was prickled with dampness, or maybe that was just Harry's. He didn't care, and neither did Draco. He _knew_ this. With a rapid nod of flushed skin and slick brow swiping his own, Draco croaked a reply. "Please… yes, I need, we need –"

He didn't have to finish his words. They could both feel the urgency, both revelled in the sore and desperate need, suppressed only by the knowledge that it would come, that the thrumming ache of _notcloseenough_ would be broken.

In a frenzy of silken robes, flung with careless haste in cloud-like pools of material around them, Harry and Draco relieved themselves of the thin barriers that were the only elements that hung in the way of merging into one. As the last garment fell, Harry flinging the clinging material from him with blind urgency, Draco locked his arms around him once more and dragged him onto his lap. As his strong, slender arms locked around Harry's back, Harry curled himself tightly around Draco in return, wrapping fingers, arms, legs and toes around him in an embrace that would have put a strangler vine to shame. The radiation of body heat, pressed directly skin-to-skin, was intoxicating.

"Harry," Draco murmured, directly into his ear in a rush of heated breath. "Can I…?"

Harry didn't even need to think. There wasn't a question in the matter. His cheek pressed against Draco's, he replied in a breathless "God, yes".

The charms were not entirely unpleasant, exactly, but they would hardly be used preferentially. Charms to ease the initial discomfort of penetration, to hasten the preparation of a needy couple as they strove for rapid release. Harry and Draco rarely used such methods, and not only because of they often left the receiver with the uneasy feeling of disjointedness. There was just something so much more intimate about approaching their lovemaking slowly, with consideration for one's partner and revelling in the unravelling of tightness, the easing of tension to welcome one's lover into their embrace.

Harry couldn't object, however, when he heard Draco whisper the charms and felt his body respond. He didn't complain, for Hell, he would have cuffed Draco over the head had he _not_ taken the effective shortcut. As it was, he could only utter a moan, locking his arms more tightly around Draco's neck and pressing his lips in successive kisses along his shoulder, his cheek, his jaw.

An instant later, Draco shifted them with fluid grace until Harry felt himself pressed against the ground, the solid flatness cushioned by dry grass. It could have been – should have been – an awkward motion, as even only for an instant Harry couldn't bring himself to let Draco go. Neither could Draco to him, Harry could feel. The _need_ to be pressed together at every inch was nearly painful. It would have been like chopping off a limb to separate at this point.

Easily raising his leg at Draco's urging, Harry hitched his knee to his shoulder with a hand held around his thigh. Coiling his other leg around Draco's waist, he drew him closer until the crushing heat of impassioned skin was triumphed only by the throbbing warmth of their shared arousals. The soft, sensitive skin, hardened and quivering in desperate need, was pressed between them. Draco uttered a choked groan, his forehead pressed once more against Harry's. In a disoriented flutter of lashes, Harry locked eyes with him. His voice panted, gasped, as he urged him, "Draco…"

It was all Draco needed to relinquish any remaining vestiges of restraint. Positioning himself, balancing himself just enough to gain sufficient leverage but never – _never_ – lose contact, and he thrust forward. Harry loosed in his own broken groan, warmth settling in his belly as he felt himself filled with _Draco_.

Nothing in the world could feel so perfect, and not only for his own swelling sense of fulfilment at their joining. The mirroring relief, the bliss that rippled through him that came purely from Draco… there was nothing that could compare to that. It cast even their previous lovemaking in a shadow in comparison.

Draco had asked him once, months ago, how he managed. It was a hesitant question, wary, as though he prodded cautiously at a healing bone fearing descent into broken relapse should he nudge too hard. But he had asked, because he'd said he couldn't fathom how, after experiencing such overwhelming trauma with Defaux, Harry could possibly readily and eagerly desire to pursue further intimacy.

Harry had replied easily: because it was with Draco.

They had experimented, the two of them, had reversed their positions and attempted to discern that which suited them most. Harry could still recall every moment of each time he'd taken Draco; there was nothing equal in the world, the pleasure that sprung from such a union.

And yet, pleasurable though it may be, it couldn't quite compare to that which he felt when Draco took him. Some may consider his masochistic, others unhinged, that he could _enjoy_ , could find ultimate pleasure, from an act so fundamentally similar to that which had been forcibly impressed upon him by Defaux. They would be wrong. Because being with Draco, being taken why him and embraced by him… it was so completely opposite, so far removed from the shadowed memories of the past, that it washed away any lingering traces. There was nothing – _nothing_ – that could possibly tarnish the act of being so utterly cherished, so tenderly cared for and completely needed, like air to a drowning man, that came from being loved by Draco.

Shifting his hips slightly, Harry tightened his thighs around Draco, one lifting to hook of his shoulder and the other around his waist, in an attempt to draw them ever closer. It would never be close enough, but feeling Draco within him, _feeling_ the throb of desire that mirrored his own and being cradled in unyielding arms in much the same way that Harry wrapped his own, was so close that it sufficed.

"Love you… I love you, so much, I can't even…"

"I know, I can _feel_ it…"

Their words, on an endless repeat, were indiscernible from origin. Not that it mattered. Each utterance could have come from either of them anyway.

With slow, haphazard thrusts, Draco set up a pace that lasted only briefly for the pleasure it elicited. Harry moaned at the sparking of sensations, unconsciously tightening the grip of his legs at the glide of Draco's length withdrawing and entering him again and again. At the shudder of mind-numbing pleasure as Draco angled himself with remarkable precision and drew his hardness over the bundle of nerves that triggered a lightning strike signal to race towards Harry's brain. But most overwhelmingly, it was the duality of experiences that enticed a flare of overpowering and unrestrainable lust to rush through him. For it wasn't only his own pleasure that Harry felt; the deafening, indescribable pleasure that emanated from Draco, that thrummed through their new bond… it heightened the experience tenfold.

Gentle and tender may have been the intention, but intentions fell to the wind at such a discovery. Harry gasped as Draco's arm wrapped around his raised leg, fingers digging with pain-pleasure into his skin, while the other grasped his waist in a steadying hold. He set a rigorous pace, of ragged pants and rapid thrusts that rocked Harry's body already writhing in the pleasure of the moment. The sight of Draco, his blonde hair falling across his forehead, thin brows wrinkled and eyes closing briefly only to flare open to meet his own intensely, of his mouth open and panting in faint moans, was captivating.

Quite without realising it, Harry lost his embracing grasp on Draco's neck. His hands scrambled at the ground above his head, seeking purchase, a handhold, _anything_ to ground him in the assault of wave after wave of euphoric pleasure that rumbled through him with each snap of Draco's hips. His vision blurred – or maybe he just closed his eyes – and a weight of heat and dizzying ecstasy built within him. Hand dropping frantically to grasp himself, his own throbbing length almost painful to touch under such arousal, and within moment, swift, short jerks of his hand in synchrony with Draco's thrusts, and he reached his climax in pulses of blessed release, muscles seizing in an attempt to draw every second of pleasure to its utmost. He released a strangled cry, more like a whimper, head falling back and mouth gasping as every nerve ending seemed to light afire.

Draco wasn't long in following. The frantic thrusting, the muffled groans and slap of skin on skin, abruptly stuttered to a halt with a flooding of wet warmth inside of Harry. His own strangled moan tumbled from his lips, his eyes squeezing shut tightly to revel in the sheer _feeling_ of it. Harry, still tumbling down from the crest of his own climax, felt his body shudder in the echoing rise and crash of pleasure, a second cresting that, even muffled as it was being of only secondary nature, triggered the pleasure centres in his brain into overload. He groaned in an almost pained utterance of release.

Draco slumped atop him at the dwindling of their high. The flurry of emotions, of passion, paused in its onward flight and demand if only momentarily, and in that moment Harry and Draco seemed to sink into each other. Arms and legs clasped around shoulders, behind necks, around waists, and the stuttering rise and fall of chests was no deterrent to crushing them together as close as physically possible.

Dropping his head to Harry's Draco slowly blinked his eyes open. Even in the darkness Harry could make out his blown pupils, grey eyes turned silver in the unshakable grasp of realised love. He met Harry's own and slowly a smile, a smile of pure Draco, spread across his face. It was only when their lips locked in a kiss that Harry realised he had been mirroring his smile.

Words weren't necessary, but that had never stopped Draco before. In between an exchange of smattering kisses, feather-light and impeccably sweet, between the tilt of heads to stroke nose upon nose, press cheek to cheek, Draco murmured the perfect words. _The_ perfect word, over and over. "Love you… I love you so much… I'm never, ever going to let you go… I love you."

And if Harry couldn't dredge from within himself the ability reply with words, it hardly mattered. For they were bonded, and the feelings he couldn't quite express spoke for themselves. The expression of sheer delight on Draco's face told him his 'words' were heard loud and clear.

* * *

Dawn found them nestled together in a tangle of limbs and the blanketing cover of their discarded white robes. Robes markedly less white, stained with streaks of green, after a night used as cushions and blankets on tufted grass. Harry didn't care a wit, and he knew Draco didn't because, well… he _knew_ it.

Exhaustion had settled upon them, and it was not solely because of their recent string of sleepless nights preparing the potion that had catalysed their bonding. There had been even less sleep that night in particular than any in the week before it.

Not that Harry was complaining, of course. Far from it. He couldn't have thought of a better way to spend their bond-night, a night that, to him, held ever greater significance than that of any potential wedding in their future.

The dual passion between them had enticed them into the wild dance of lust with more fervour than a pair of maenads at a Bacchanalia. One bout ended, sinking into heady grogginess, only to reinitiate with the slightest spark of rekindled ardour, with every renewed understanding of the depth of the bond they now shared. And the best part of it was that they completely and utterly shared every moment of it, every sensation and every instant of release and gratification.

Harry rested atop of Draco, more a blanket himself than that their clothes made. He turned his head from where it rested on Draco's chest, listening to the solid, constant thump of a heartbeat that already resonated on an inaudible level in his mind. He propped his chin on one hand, peering at Draco's face as his bond-partner gazed up at the pale pink skies of dawn.

As thought feeling the weight of Harry's stare – which, really, he probably did – Draco turned his eyes towards him. A small smile, filled with every element of love and adoration he held, spread across his face. It was an expression that Harry could never get tired of, could stare at for hours to simply fall into its depths.

"What?"

Shrugging at Draco's query, Harry turned his head to rest his cheek over the resounding thud of heartbeat once more. "Nothing. Just thinking."

"About?"

 _You_. He didn't say it aloud, but the huff of laughter that jostled the smooth rise and fall of Draco's chest said he heard it anyway. "Just that, if we spend too long out here then I worry your mother might send the house elves out."

Another chuckle, more amused that concerned, rumbled through Draco's chest. "Yes, she might at that. It seems a very likely possibility."

"Or she might come out herself."

"Oh Merlin, no, that would be even _worse_."

It was Harry's turn to laugh, but Draco caught his breath and continued thoughtfully before he could reply. "You know…"

There was a pause, a lull. Harry turned his face towards Draco once more, peering up at his face that had turned to the dawn sky once more. There was a faintly chiding cast to his smile and Harry could feel the… _relief?_ that coursed through him through the bond.

"What?"

Draco shook his head, the sound of grass crinkling beneath him as he shifted. "Nothing. Just that, I'm really, really glad I didn't bond with my mother."

Harry was speechless for a moment before he felt a bubble of amusement rise within him. A moment later was chortle into Draco's chest, not even bothering to hide his merriment.

"It's not funny," Draco grumbled, though the amusement that thrummed through their bond spoke otherwise of his consideration.

"Oh, of course it's not funny. I positively cringe to think of you bonded to your mother after what sort of response it elicited between us."

A playful cuff, barely more than a pat, caught the back of Harry's head, which only made him struggle to suppress his laughter further. "Shut up, you. I do _not_ want to think about that."

With a roll and tug of Harry's arms, Draco dragged him further up his chest until they faced one another at head height. A grin spread across his face, a grin that was entirely too Draco for Harry to _not_ lean forward and kiss him.

Curling around one another, they settled into a cocoon of slow, drifting, shared emotions. Seemingly unconsciously, Draco's hand slipped into Harry's, fingers interweaving as they had so often that previous night. Harry gripped his hand tightly, with the promise that he would never let go.

Somehow, Draco always managed to make his cold fingers warm.

_~The End of Working Out The Kinks~_


End file.
